


deadly by design

by atinystarlight



Category: ATEEZ (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Vampire, Blood Drinking, Bondage, Choking, Drug Use, Enemies to Lovers, M/M, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Psychosis, Rough Sex, Science Fiction, Semi-Public Sex, Sleep Deprivation, Slow Burn, Suicide Attempt, Torture, also, dubcon, everyone is effed up except seongjoong they’re pretty chill, pls see chapter notes for ch 22 and on for specific torture warnings, sex while under the influence of drugs so keep that in mind, there are lots - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-21
Updated: 2021-02-03
Packaged: 2021-03-04 05:06:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 26
Words: 150,453
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24844279
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/atinystarlight/pseuds/atinystarlight
Summary: San is a member of the elite Special Operations force tasked with apprehending the biggest and baddest, including the powerful half-vampires that resulted from a government funded science experiment gone wrong. Wooyoung, a drug dealer, just so happens to be one. After a regrettable one-night-stand, San finds himself slowly but surely losing his grip on everything he once knew, and the consequences are more ruthless than he could have ever imagined.You know what they say—keep your friends close, and your enemies closer.(aka a wild ass ride filled with blood, action, and moral ambiguity have fun)
Relationships: Choi San/Jung Wooyoung
Comments: 528
Kudos: 413





	1. maybe if you hadn’t shot me

**Author's Note:**

> originally intended to be pwp but I went too hard on the plot you know how it goes man. now it’s a whole thing. kinda implied but it takes place in a post WW3 setting that has sci-fi elements and also vampires are real don't question it too much lol. and the characters are like mid-late twenties. ps every member will appear in the story!

Two things happened during the war that made the world go to shit. One: the discovery of vampires. Two: creation of the “soldier drug.” Or sol, for short. Soldier, solo, Rambo, mercy―mercenary.

It’s all the government’s fault, naturally. After they captured a vampire alive, they figured out how to use its cells to create vampire-human hybrids. Basically, they were humans with all the strength and invulnerability of vampires, but lacked the ability to create more. Soldiers were selected to undergo this process to become super-soldiers, some willing, but not all. The plan went south when these soldiers were unable to fight the bloodlust that came with being a hybrid, and consequently killed many of their comrades.

Around this time, a new drug had been formed for a similar purpose; creating super-soldiers. It was a temporary solution that gave regular soldiers the power to fight like savages. All was well and good until it started showing up in black market trades, which meant dangerous criminals had a tremendous advantage.

Once the war was over and the country’s economy had fallen to its knees, a new, quieter war took its place. The government had tried to correct its mistake by assassinating all of the hybrids, but there were some who slipped through the cracks. Unable to go back to their normal lives, the soldiers who had become hybrids had no choice but to live off the grid, using whatever means necessary to survive. Many assimilated into gangs, spearheading the illegal sol trade.

What kind of task force was equipped to handle an underground army of mercenary criminals with superhuman strength fighting alongside bloodthirsty vampire-human hybrids with a grudge against authority?

Frigid, unforgiving rain coated the city in an endless torrent, blackened water overflowing from gutters by the bucket full. The shit hole, ramshackle part of town reeked of gasoline and rust, a faint hint of putrid sewage leaking into the air every few blocks where a manhole cover was probably stolen and melted down for cash. The kind of place that even rats wouldn't dare settle, much less anything on two legs. Or so one might think.

San sloshed through the rain drenched streets, wiping water from his face as it continued to blind him. Few street lamps illuminated his surroundings, as most of them had gone out from lack of service. Shards of glass crunched under his boots as he ran. He could no longer hear the footsteps of his comrades behind him, meaning one of their targets had probably gone off in another direction.

_Shit. Not a good time to get split up._

He prayed he wasn’t walking straight into an ambush as he chased his target deeper into the corridors of the derelict shopping district. His boot splashed into a deceptively deep puddle, soaking his leg all the way to his knee with foul, oil slicked water. He cursed under his breath, spitting rain from his lips. He clenched his gun as if doing so would thaw out his stiff fingers, but smooth steel was unfortunately cold in his hands.

He saw an opening and fired at his target, aiming low. The figure stumbled, then pushed off the wall and kept running. His gait looked off, thankfully, and he began to slow enough for San to close the distance between them. A streak of red smeared across the asphalt under his feet, bleeding into the puddles on the street. San was close enough to see the target's leg oozing freely where he'd been shot.

His target reeled, striking at San with incredible speed. The first strike missed, but not the second. It hit San square in the face, knocking him back a few steps. He raised his arm, squeezing his finger against the trigger of his pistol, but the target grabbed his arm, yanking him forward and off balance. The gun fell out of his hand, but San recovered quickly, ripping the knife from his belt and slashing wildly. He felt resistance as it grazed flesh, droplets of red splattering into the air. San followed with a powerful kick, and his opponent hit the ground.

San tackled him. His opponent grabbed his wrist, preventing the knife from sinking into his flesh. They were locked for a few seconds, muscles trembling as they grappled for the upper hand. He threw San off, sending him crashing into the wall, his head making a searing, audible impact against wet brick. Another jolt of pain as a foot smashed into his ribs, possibly cracking one or two. A choked sound lodged in his throat. Heart pumping with adrenaline, he tackled the man and landed a few blows to the face, pinning him to the ground with the weight of his body. The opponents hood fell back, and the bandana hiding his face was ripped off in the skirmish. San pinned him to the muddy asphalt with a forearm braced against his throat, chest heaving with exertion.

“You again,” he huffed. The man thrashed, and San tightened his hold against his neck.

“You’re really fucking annoying, you know,” the man spat.

The man, his opponent, he now recognized as the slippery sol dealer who had escaped him in the past. His hair was dyed a light purple, so he’d just been calling him “the purple one” in his head. He thought it was an odd choice for someone constantly on the run. Too flashy. _He must be one cocky son of a bitch._

San had tried to detain him at a club raid a few weeks ago, but the venue was in on the trade, moving huge quantities of sol under the table, and they had taken precautionary measures in case they got busted. Toxic gas had seeped into his lungs, and the last thing he saw through bleary eyes was purple’s smug expression as he sashayed through the crowd, and the Ops agents left the place empty handed and wheeled out on stretchers. Two agents had succumbed to the toxin, and a lawsuit was underway, as the bureau had ceased the mandate on gas masks as a required uniform component after the budget cuts hit. So it was safe to say he was a little salty.

“What’s your name, purple?”

“You first,” purple gritted through clenched teeth. “You look awfully young for an Ops up close.”

“I’ll show you my credentials on the way to Confinement,” San replied with a smirk, satisfied with his answer.

Purple laughed. His mouth opened up just enough for San to catch a glimpse of his elongated canines.

“You’re a hybrid?” San asked, surprised. If that was the case, then it’s no wonder he’s been so hard to catch. Hybrids were much smarter than regular humans who’d been doped up on sol. Sol tended to dull the thinking ability of the user in favor of heightened strength. “You seem young for one,” San mused when the other didn’t respond. Despite looking no older than San himself―who, admittedly, was younger than most of the guys in his division―his eyes burned with a bitter spite that could only be accumulated from years of hatred.

“Yeah? Guess we're in the same boat then," the hybrid smirked.

“How so?” San quirked an eyebrow. 

“We're a huge pain in each other's asses, we can skip all this bullshit and just go our merry separate ways. I'm sick of running into you pigs everywhere I look," he sneered.

“Should’ve thought about that before you became a drug dealer," San taunted back.

“Right, I should have changed my major when I had the chance,” purple spat sarcastically.

San scoffed. “Funny.”

The body under him squirmed. San braced his knees against his ribcage, letting him know he didn’t plan on budging. “Get off, before I throw you off. I’d hate to fuck up your pretty face,” purple growled, obviously frustrated.

San pulled his arm back so that his knife was resting against the hybrid’s throat. His patience was waning. He was cold and soaked to the bone, and his head was pounding, a warm line of blood trickling down the back of his neck. “You can try,” he said coldly. The hybrid was obviously weakened, due to the blood loss from the bullet wound in his leg. It’s also possible that he hadn’t fed in a while, as hybrids were usually borderline impossible to chase down on foot. He wouldn't let an opportunity like this one slip away.

“What do I have to do, bribe you? Christ, I really don’t have time for this," purple sighed angrily.

“Oh, bribery now? I’ll add to the list of things you’re being convicted for, how’s that?” San grinned coldly.

Purple gave a toothy smile. “Mm, I’ve got quite the resume, huh?”

He caught San off guard by giving him a quick up-and-down with his eyes. _What the hell was that? Is he seriously trying to flirt?_ San felt irrationally angry, and gripped the blade tighter in his fist. He was getting a little sick of this hybrid bastard looking down on him. It also made San feel a little shaken by how, despite being physically on top, he didn’t feel like he had the upper hand in the conversation. 

Purple opened his mouth to say something else, then closed it abruptly. His eyes shot to the main road, face dropping into a serious expression. “Shit,” he muttered. San followed his gaze. There was no one. “Listen!”

San listened apprehensively. He definitely expected the hybrid to trick him into unhanding him. He kept his guard up. “I don’t—“

“Quiet!” purple snapped. The way his face had changed made San feel a bit queasy. A faint sound reached his ears, somewhere between a predator’s growl and a human screech. Then another, like there were multiple sources. The hybrid looked back up to meet his stare.

“We have to go.”

“What?” San asked, shocked. “You’re not going anywhere.” He pressed the blade tighter against the hybrid’s skin.

“Listen, do you have any idea where we are right now? And what’s the one thing cops and hybrids fear more than each other?” San held his gaze, but remained quiet. Purple’s sudden seriousness creeped him out. “The real vampires. I'd say we have about a minute, tops, before you and I are both toast. So you better get off of me right the fuck now.”

San felt a chill creep up his spine. The screech sounded off again, echoing along the empty passageways. Real vampires? He knew some were still around, obviously, but they’re rare enough that they didn’t rank on his list of concerns. However, he’d heard stories of how the few left were driven out of cities, driven mad with hunger as they were left to scavenge on the outskirts. Urban legends of how they no longer resembled humans, starvation bringing out their most animalistic and dangerous tendencies. A fight with one almost always ended with casualties. And if he was right about there being more than one? San swallowed. The weight of the situation settled in like a rock in his stomach. He was pretty banged up, and even in perfect condition, he was still just a human.

“If they find us, we’re both dead,” purple emphasized with an iciness that made San want to believe him.

“Can’t we outrun them?”

“Maybe if you hadn’t shot me. But even then I doubt it. I’m covered in blood. As soon as they smell it, we’re done for.”

San was frozen, listening to the screeches, trying to gauge how many enemies they were facing. One exhausted human and an injured hybrid probably wouldn’t be able to do much in the way of survival. He weighed his options in his head. Either this hybrid fucker was bluffing to get out of being arrested, or they really were about to be mauled by psychotic, bloodthirsty vampires. He really didn't like either option very much.

“I have an idea,” purple said carefully, his gaze sliding back to meet San's.

“Let’s hear it.”

“Do you trust me?”

“....No.” San frowned. He didn't trust the slippery hybrid as far as he could throw him.

The hybrid rolled his eyes. “Do you wanna die here?”

San let out a long breath, letting his arm fall away from purple’s throat.

Purple propped himself up on his elbows. “Let me drink from you,” he said, staring straight into San’s eyes like it was a dare.

“What?” San huffed, scandalized. This guy sure had some nerve, alright.

“I can’t fight with my leg like this. I need to heal. Just do it,” the hybrid hissed. The tone in his voice was beginning to fill with desperation, spitting his argument through his teeth. “Either that, or we die together.”

San fought with himself mentally for a moment, eventually coming to terms with the fact that he did want to survive until his next paycheck. He hated the idea of letting that cocky bastard get away, but he wouldn’t be of much use to the force if he died. If this was all just a big trick to let him free, then San would have his fucking head the next time. He gave an angry sigh. He pushed up his sleeve up his arm and shoved it in purple’s face.

“Fine,” San spat. 

The hybrid wasted no time, pulling San’s arm close and sinking his fangs in. San winced at the sensation of teeth puncturing his skin. His mouth was warm and wet, lips forming a tight seal as he tried to suck out as much as he could in a short duration. He could feel the hybrid’s tongue against his skin, and he shifted awkwardly as he waited for him to finish. The bizarreness of his current situation hit him, as it usually did in times like these. He imagined an alternate version of himself working a desk job life, his mind free of vampires and hybrids and drug gangs. Reality was just a big, weird, simulation, and he was along for the ride.

The hybrid pulled back, releasing San’s arm. “Wooyoung,” he said, dragging the back of his hand across his mouth. He looked at San expectantly.

San stared at him for a moment, contemplating whether or not to reply. Fuck it, who cares. “San,” he stated with a sigh.

Wooyoung smiled, a streak of blood smeared across his cheek. The past minute had felt strangely intimate, and San was already ready to forget about it. Luckily, there was no time for awkwardness. Wooyoung rose to his feet, and San followed suit. He gave an experimental sway, testing out pressure on his injured leg, then gave a satisfied nod of his head. “Better,” Wooyoung exhaled.

There was an especially loud growl as the vampires drew closer. He retrieved his gun off the ground, and checked to make sure it still had rounds. Wooyoung shoved a hand into his jacket. When he pulled it back out, a tiny glass vial was between his fingers. “Take this,” he said, tossing it to San.

San caught it, then opened his hand to see what it was. “What’s—“ he started, then his brain made the connection once he saw the clear liquid inside. Sol. “Oh, no,” he groaned. “No way.”

“Don’t argue. If you take that, we just might survive this.”

Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck. Consuming illicit substances was not something good cops did. Especially not highly trained members of the elite Special Ops. But then again, dying would also make him a bad cop, right? Dying was most certainly not cool. “How long does it take to kick in?” San asked, apprehensive.

“It’s immediate. It’ll boost your strength by a lot. And you won’t feel pain. So if you do die, at least it’ll be painless on mercy. Fitting name."

He unscrewed the cap and tossed it aside. He looked at the vial, then took a deep breath. He could hear the footsteps of the vampires now. They were close.

Bottoms up.

He emptied the vial onto his tongue. It had a sour, chemical taste that made his tongue curl. Almost immediately, his heart skipped a beat, then kicked into overdrive. He dropped the vial, hand clenching the fabric over his heart. He doubled over, bracing himself against the wall. He started breathing fast, almost like he’d just run a marathon. His skin erupted with heat like he’d been dipped in a volcano. Beside him, Wooyoung dropped down, readying himself into a stance.

A vampire rounded the corner, and just like that, San’s brain went out like a light. He rushed his new enemy, feet carrying him so fast he felt wind rushing past his ears. The sound his gun made as it cracked against the vampire’s skull was sickening, but in that moment, San loved it. Energy buzzed under his skin, crackling like sparks of electricity, like someone had plugged him into a wall outlet. No, more than that. It felt like he’d swallowed a rod of uranium and become his own nuclear generator.

Another vampire appeared behind him, and Wooyoung tackled him, pouncing like a mountain lion. San’s brain could manage one thought only: destroy the target. San grabbed the vampire by the throat and threw it to the ground. It was still reeling from the blow to the head, and he used that delay to crush its throat beneath the heel of his boot. It gargled, its hand coming up to grasp at San’s pant leg, still hanging onto life. San brought his foot up and stomped right on its head, putting it out for good.

He whipped his head around to gauge the situation. There were two more, not counting the one Wooyoung was fighting. He didn’t have the element of surprise this time, and they were fast. The female vampire lunged, fangs aimed straight at his throat. He dodged, but its claw-like nails sank into the flesh of his bicep. He hissed, anticipating pain, but none came. A giddiness came over him at this revelation. _In that case_ , he thought to himself. He twisted his body, ripping its nails out of his arm, spattering blood drops onto its face. This seemed to make it even crazier, as its screeching grew deafeningly loud. He raised his gun to shoot, but the other vampire, the male, tackled him.

Even with his enhanced strength, starving vampires were on another level. Every muscle in his body trembled as he forced the assailant off, it’s fangs a hair’s breadth from sinking into his neck. He slipped his hand down, able to quickly grab his knife from its sheath. Gripping it like a vice, he swung his arm wildly, hoping to deal damage of some kind. The knife connected once, twice, then a third time into the vampire’s back. This was enough of a distraction that San was able to pull his other hand away, shooting the vampire square in the head. It exploded in a gruesome shower of fluid, and San had to shut his eyes as the spray drenched him point blank.

Without even a second to breathe, the female vampire was pursuing him again, pinning San to the ground. He landed a shot to its stomach, but it didn’t relent. He fired again, but his last round was spent. He struggled underneath the vampire, hands pushing against its face to keep it from sinking its teeth in. It scratched at him like a feral cat, screaming like a banshee.

Wooyoung appeared behind it, poised and ready to strike with his knife. A sort of possessiveness came over him when he saw the other man going for _his_ prey, and he launched it off, sending it somersaulting over his head, away from Wooyoung. He leapt onto it, then let out a flurry of what he could only describe as the most brutal punches he’d ever laid down on someone. He didn’t want to stop. The feeling of his fists hitting bone made his chest swell with ecstasy in a fucked up kind of way. It finally went limp, face mangled beyond recognition, and San stood up, shaking the excess blood off his hands. He looked around, scanning the surroundings for other vampires. The bodies of the four others littered the ground, and the whole street was soaked in red.

“We got them all,” Wooyoung panted.

San felt strangely.... disappointed. His body was still buzzing with power. His fists ached to collide with flesh, to crush bones and tear through ligaments. He stared at his hand, opening and closing his first. His chest heaved, and sweat dripped down his forehead, mixing with the cocktail of blood and rain water that coated his skin.

“How do you feel?” Wooyoung asked, with an I-just-made-a-cop-do-drugs smugness all over his face. He was a mess, his purple hair streaked brown with mud, and a nasty cut slashed across one cheek.

“Amazing,” San sighed, lips stretching into a smile as his gaze met the other’s. That was the only word that he could really pull from his mind at the moment.

Wooyoung laughed, shaking his head a little. “You’re a shitty cop, you know. Drugs are bad.”

San just laughed. He couldn’t muster up a good rebuttle.

“Do me a favor? I’ll heal faster,” Wooyoung asked, gesturing to San’s arm with a nod of his head.

San pulled his sleeve up, then offered his arm. “Thanks,” Wooyoung said as he leaned his head down to get a good drinking angle. He bit into San’s arm for the second time that night, but without the same urgency from before. He drank slowly, savoring the taste of San’s blood instead of chugging it. San watched in fascination as the cut on his cheek pinched itself shut, then shrank until it was gone.

Maybe it was odd to stare, but San couldn’t help it. There was something captivating about the hybrid through all the grime and dirt. His hair was plastered to his forehead as the rain kept falling, and little droplets clung to his eyelashes.

The sensation of Wooyoung’s mouth against his skin was as strange as before. If not stranger. It felt like a kiss, slow and sensual. He felt his tongue circle the punctures in slow little drags. It mingled with the crackling sensation underneath his skin, sending tingles up his arm. His brain couldn’t process anything other than how good it felt. The drug was making his body feel weird in general. He almost had to laugh at how utterly fucked the whole night had been, and how it just kept snowballing into something even weirder.

Wooyoung pulled back, letting out a refreshed sigh. His tongue poked out from between his lips, licking off the excess blood around his mouth. It did something to San, whose brain was in caveman-mode from the drug. He didn’t quite know what happened in that moment when Wooyoung looked up at him. He wasn’t anywhere near able to form rational thoughts. All he knew was how hot he felt, his skin burning and crackling with all the energy of a newborn sun, and that his body craved some sort of outlet.

The intelligent part of his brain that spoke words was on lockdown, silenced by the part that contained every primal human instinct, dialed all the way up, all at once. He felt volatile, like live ammunition, and his heart pounded like it was ticking down to explode.

He blinked, and suddenly his hands were balled up in Wooyoung’s shirt, and their mouths were against each other’s. What was happening to him? Was he possessed? Wooyoung was a criminal for god’s sake. Wooyoung seemed startled for a second, but he adjusted quickly and reciprocated the kiss. He fisted his hands into San’s hair, roughly dragging his fingers through as he smiled against San’s lips.

Part of him wondered if Wooyoung knew this would be a side effect, but he gave up fighting the situation when Wooyoung raked his nails down the side of San’s neck. Since he couldn’t feel pain, it registered to him as a tingly, blissful sensation, and he shuddered, breath becoming shaky. It was like that time in high school when he took ecstasy at a party, and all he’d wanted to do was take his clothes off and make out with everyone in the room. He felt like that, only less “peace, love, respect,” and more “kill, fuck, kill.”

He skipped about ten steps and went straight to feeling Wooyoung’s ass. He gave it a hard squeeze, dragging his hips forward as he did so. Wooyoung did a little half-moan, and just like that, San became an animal in heat. Fuck the Special Ops force, fuck hybrids, fuck everything. Most importantly.... Fuck Wooyoung.

Wooyoung seemed to understand. He sank his fangs into San’s lower lip and let his hands slide up under the wet fabric of his shirt. He rutted his hips against San’s, slow and teasing, but San wasn’t having any of that. He wrapped his fingers around Wooyoung’s throat and threw him back against the building. Wooyoung gasped as his back hit the wall, but a look spread across his face that indicated to San that he liked that very much. San tightened his fingers, squeezing until Wooyoung’s eyelashes fluttered and his eyes started to roll back a bit.

“Fuck,” San growled, releasing him so that he could lick into his mouth once again. There was little grace involved in any of his actions, but he didn’t care. Wooyoung obviously didn’t care either, judging by the way he kissed San like he was trying to devour him. Maybe it was a hybrid thing.

“Hang on,” Wooyoung panted, breaking the kiss. “I have an idea.” He pushed San away from him. He quirked his head to the side, gesturing down the road. He didn’t know what Wooyoung was trying to say, but he didn’t argue when he felt a hand tugging his wrist to lead him in that direction. They ran through the rain, dodging the corpses of the vampires. Wooyoung halted in front of a public transit bus that looked too decrepit to still be in service. He looked at San over his shoulder, giving him an aren’t-I-a-genius little eyebrow raise. San’s eyebrows pinched together in confusion. He didn’t want to think. Only fuck. Wooyoung rolled his eyes.

Wooyoung let go of San’s wrist. His foot was a blur as it went flying into the door of the bus, sending it crashing inwards. It flew off easily, and the metal groaned as it was torn from its rusty hinges. Wooyoung looked back at San again. “Get it now?”

Shit, that was hot. A little lightbulb went off in his mind. Shelter was probably good. Though at that point, San could fuck in a dumpster and not give a shit. San nodded enthusiastically. Wooyoung hopped through the door, scoping out the place as he entered. San followed him in. It was no five star hotel, and it was probably full of spiders, but it was dry and vacant and that’s what counted.

As soon as both of his feet were in the bus, Wooyoung grabbed him by the collar of his shirt and shoved him into a seat. He landed hard on his ass, and Wooyoung climbed into his lap, looking down at him mischievously. The plastic seats creaked under their weight as Wooyoung settled into position, his knees straddling San’s hips.

San drank in the sight of the hybrid with his eyes, looking him up and down like a tiger would his prey. He caught a peak of Wooyoung’s collarbone from under his shirt and decided he definitely needed to see more. His first thought was to rip Wooyoung’s shirt off by literally tearing the fabric in two. He started to, then he heard Wooyoung let out an angry noise and felt his hands clamp around his wrists.

“Hey!” Wooyoung exclaimed. “Chill out, Tarzan. I need my shirt.” San pulled his hands away and Wooyoung pulled his shirt over his head, tossing it safely behind him. The action had tousled his already crazy hair to an even greater extent. San felt a surge of desire as soon as he saw Wooyoung’s smooth skin exposed. Sure, he was filthy, plastered with dirt and the blood of several species, but he looked rugged and wild, and San was all about that.

He sank his teeth into Wooyoung’s clavicle, and he felt Wooyoung gasp and squirm in his lap. He sucked at the spot, letting his tongue explore the grooves and contours of his bones, and he could taste sweat and iron on his skin, like he was tasting the story of their fight in the alley. He could smell gunpowder when he inhaled, reminding San that he was dangerous, but San’s brain was too fried with lust to care. “Fuck, so hot,” San managed to growl through his teeth.

“I like you better like this,” Wooyoung breathed into San’s ear. He was so wound up he almost jumped out of his skin when Wooyoung gave his cock a hard squeeze through his pants. San groaned loudly, sinking his fingernails into Wooyoung’s skin. San’s skin was so hot he couldn’t take it anymore. He pulled his shirt off and flung it somewhere in the bus with way too much force.

Wooyoung rested his hands on his shoulders, then slid them down, feeling every dip and rise of his abdominal muscles. San wondered if he could feel his heart pounding. Wooyoung lifted a finger and traced a line on San’s chest. “These are gonna hurt tomorrow,” he laughed. San looked down. Sure enough, there were deep scratches all over his upper body where the vampire bitch had maimed him.

San laughed. Pain? Never heard of it. “Mmf,” he said intelligently. Something sparked the memory of Wooyoung drinking from him in the alley, and images of him wiping blood from his stained lips flooded back into his mind. Call it a new kink, but San wanted to experience it again. “Bite me,” he breathed in Wooyoung’s ear. Wooyoung pulled back a little to meet his gaze. He raised his eyebrows a bit.

“Really?” He saw Wooyoung’s eyes flicker down from his eyes to his neck. San leaned back to expose his throat, and Wooyoung swallowed. He leaned down until his lips were just barely touching San’s skin, and San was sure he could feel his heartbeat. “Here?” Wooyoung asked, his voice a shaky whisper as he pressed his lips to the pulsating artery. San nodded. Wooyoung sank his fangs into San’s flesh, moaning openly as blood flowed into his mouth. Wooyoung’s nails dug into San’s shoulders, and he slid his hips forward, dragging their cocks against one another.

The feeling of his fangs puncturing his skin was ecstasy, and sounds began escaping San’s mouth that he had absolutely no control over. He was also pretty certain he’d never been so hard in his life. And when Wooyoung pulled back, looking San straight in the eyes with San’s blood dribbling down his chin, he was sure he’d never been so hard.

He threw Wooyoung to the floor. He didn’t really mean to, but he didn’t have a good buffer on his strength just then. “Damn,” Wooyoung laughed, breathless, and sat up to do the honors of getting San’s belt off. Ordinarily San would freak out at the idea of anyone touching his belt, as any good cop would, since it held things he didn’t want civilians (or enemies) getting their hands on. But San had come to terms with the fact that, right then, he was not a good cop. Or, maybe _ever_ after this, but now was not the time to be thinking about moral obligations.

Wooyoung tossed it aside with a heavy clunk, and worked on getting San’s pants down as swiftly as possible. He got them down around his knees before he apparently decided that was good enough, and before San knew what hit him, his cock was in Wooyoung’s mouth. San nearly keeled over, and he had to grab onto a bus seat for dear life when Wooyoung started sucking. He devoured his cock with a level of skill and enthusiasm that could probably put him on an Olympic team. San’s brain was TV static at that point.

“Ahh, fuck, fuck—“ he squeezed his eyes shut, shoving Wooyoung off of him as he felt himself already about to cum. He couldn’t help it, it was a side effect of the drug, apparently. And it didn’t help that Wooyoung was undeniably fucking hot. He just didn’t want to cum in less than sixty seconds. Even on drugs, it would have been a hit to his pride.

“You like that, _officer?_ ” Wooyoung purred as he nibbled alone his jawline. San hoped his heaving chest and profuse sweating was enough of an answer. Wooyoung chomped down on his neck again, not drinking, just letting the blood cascade down like a crimson waterfall. He waited for a moment, then licked a long, sensual stripe that trailed from San’s collarbone all the way up to his ear. This was definitely the discovery of a new kink for San, as was evident by the fact that his dick was harder than a fucking diamond.

“Get on your knees,” he said as he roughly pushed Wooyoung to the floor. That was the closest thing to a full sentence he’d said since taking sol, if that counted for anything.

“Yes, sir,” Wooyoung smirked, as if he were roleplaying a cops-n-robbers situation and not actually living in one. He was clearly getting a kick out of fucking the cop who had just tried to arrest him, like some weird, messed up porno. Wooyoung shoved his pants to his knees, and San got a good view of Wooyoung’s ass for the first time, which seemed like a massive understatement. He gave a sudden slap, and Wooyoung jumped, letting out a little yelp. San couldn’t help the smile that spread across his face.

He spread Wooyoung’s cheeks apart as widely as he could, and began teasing his entrance with his thumb. “Oh, fuck,” Wooyoung groaned deep in his throat. San brought his hips forward, letting the head of his cock brush along the hybrid's perfect, round ass. He didn’t have much more patience for foreplay, but he wanted to savor the sight for just a few seconds.

“Just put it in,” Wooyoung huffed. “I’m a hybrid, you can’t hurt me.” Those words sounded like they had been spoken by Jesus himself. If Jesus was a sexy, gay drug dealer. He didn’t have to tell San twice. He lewdly spat into his hand a few times, and any shred of class he once had was gone. They were in a bus for god’s sake. Class was not welcome here. He slicked the head of his cock with saliva, and pressed it against Wooyoung’s hole, giving it an experimental slide to test the lubrication. Slowly, he pushed into his entrance, until just the tip was inside.

“Fuuuuck,” he and Wooyoung groaned in unison. He gripped Wooyoung’s hips to keep himself somewhat grounded in reality. He slowly kept pushing forward, inching further until he was in all the way. It took so much willpower to not just start fucking away. The way things were going, he really doubted his ability to last.

“Fuck, San,” Wooyoung moaned. At the mention of San’s name, that willpower went down the drain. He pulled back and slammed his cock in, and Wooyoung collapsed onto his elbows as he cried out. San thrusted into him hard and fast, breaths coming out as profanities and moans. He thought he’d died for a second and gone to heaven when Wooyoung sucked him off, but there was no comparison. His ass was so tight and hot that there’s no way his soul was still contained in his body.

The bus rocked back and forth as San’s thrusting power increased. The old metal creaked, rain pounded down on the roof, and sex sounds filled the space like an m-rated orchestra.

He felt his impending orgasm twisting inside him like a wind-up toy, growing and growing until he exploded. He blasted off into another universe entirely, leaving earth behind and transcending into the fourth dimension. His very soul was ripped from his body and flung into space. So long, earth. It was nice while it lasted. That really could have just happened, for all he knew, but he blacked out at some point, so he couldn’t say for sure.

The sound of sirens in the distance roused him awake. San cracked his eyes open, and searing sunlight stabbed into his eyes. He screwed them shut again, but it did nothing to buffer the pain. His skull felt like it had been crushed under a semi, and he shot up, clutching his head in his hands.

“Ughhh,” he groaned. There was a suffocating pain all over his body. He came to terms with the fact that he had to open his eyes eventually, and he did so, slowly.

The sun was barely even up, dawn rays just beginning to peak over the horizon. Even so, they burned his eyes like flames. He scrubbed his hands over his face, but that was a mistake. He cried out as an even greater pain came over him. He looked down at his hands and was shocked to see they looked like they’d gone through a garbage disposal. Well, maybe that was a little dramatic, but were so bruised and mangled that San didn’t even recognize them as his own hands.

San looked around. He was in a bus, and the hybrid from last night was noticeably absent. His head hurt too much to recall any fine details, but if he wasn’t mistaken, the hybrid’s name was Woo....something? Wooyoung? It didn’t matter. All that mattered to San was getting home. Step one, get out of the bus.

Actually, step one should be to get dressed. He dreaded that task, but being naked would look suspicious to bystanders. He looked down, and by some miracle, his pants were on. He put his pants on after he blacked out? Thank god, that would have been a nightmare given the current state his hands were in. He grabbed his shirt off one of the bus seats. Getting his shirt on was also a nightmare with his crippled hands, but he did it, somehow. San stood up, rising slowly like an old man, groaning the whole way. He scooped up his belt with the crook of his elbow and hobbled out of the bus.

Thankfully it had stopped raining, not that he had it in him to be thankful for anything at that moment. He limped down the street like a zombie, barely able to keep his eyes open as the sun continued to assault him. The sirens he’d heard a few minutes ago became louder, and the noise only added to his agony.

“Quiet,” he croaked, unable to protect his ears. He thought the sirens couldn’t get any louder, then a black vehicle with flashing lights rounded the corner. Its lights were too bright for him to look, but relief washed over him as he heard a familiar voice calling his name.

“San!” the voice yelled through the open driver’s window. It was Yunho, his teammate. The lights and siren ceased, and Yunho flung his door open, launching himself out of the car to intercept San.

“Hey, you alright? What happened?” Yunho asked frantically, gripping San’s shoulders to stabilize him. Yunho’s eyes jumped to the various injuries decorating San’s body. Bruises on his face, bite marks on his neck, long gouges on his chest visible from under the tears in his shirt.

“San!” Another voice called out, and Mingi flew out of the car right behind Yunho. San had no idea what to say in that moment. He just groaned a little in response.

“Come on, get in,” Mingi said, ushering him into the passenger seat with a guiding hand. San fell into the seat with a hefty plop, and he let his head fall back into the cushioned headrest. The tinted windows offered a minuscule amount of comfort to his eyes. He opened them enough to see Yunho and Mingi looking at him like he’d been mauled by Bigfoot. Honestly, that’s what he felt like too.

“What happened, man?” Yunho demanded, his eyebrows pinched with worry. “When you never came back last night, and wouldn’t pick up our calls, we had to track your phone.”

San held up a disfigured hand pathetically in a how-the fuck-could-I-pick-up-the-phone-like-this gesture.

“Vampire,” he croaked. His throat was dry. He wanted some damn water.

“Hybrids got you?”

San shook his head. “Vampire-vampire.” He wasn’t lying, but he didn’t want to tell the truth about there actually being four of them. That would inevitably lead to them asking how he was able to kill four vampires and still be alive, and he didn’t have a good cover story. He wanted to leave Wooyoung and the part about the illegal drugs out altogether. Mingi’s and Yunho’s eyes widened in unison.

“A true vampire? Like, a non-hybrid actual vampire? You're fucking with me right now.”

San nodded, shutting his eyes again. He was torn between being grateful and telling them to shut the fuck up. He needed some peace and quiet and about ten aspirin. And a shot of morphine for good measure.

“Jesus,” Yunho breathed as he put the car in drive. “Explains why you look so... dead. Glad you’re not, though.”

“Yeah, you scared the shit out of us. You never disappear like that. We were afraid you got kidnapped,” Mingi chimed in from the back seat.

“Sorry, guys,” was all San could say. He wanted to tell them the truth, but he also didn’t want to get them wrapped up in his mess. Maybe he could tell them later, when his brain didn’t feel like it was oozing out of his skull.

Then again, how would he explain taking a hit of sol, killing vampires, then railing a hybrid in an abandoned bus in a way that didn’t make him sound like a total degenerate? Yeah, maybe he’d keep that to himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for reading ilysm!!! comments are super super super appreciated!!!
> 
> i have a playlist for this fic that goes hard as fuck if you wanna check it out [here!](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/5eGeySTdOkbL7GnwxifYW7?si=Srtv7kQNSbyvS_ZwvoA6hg)


	2. you must have a death wish

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> buckle in cause I have so much planned for this story 
> 
> also this chapter is 99% dialogue wtf

“And then he— guys, no, for real— he CHUCKED it.”

Yunho howled with laughter, and Mingi repeatedly slammed his palm on the table. San met Jongho’s unamused stare and burst into laughter himself. 

“That was the worst day of my life,” Jongho deadpanned as his coworkers doubled over around him. “I smelled like tuna for ages.” Yunho finally collected himself, wiping tears from the corners of his eyes. 

“Did you get him, though?” San asked diplomatically. 

“Yes,” Jongho droned, staring off into the distance like a war veteran who’s seen too much. “But at what cost.” 

Mingi gave Jongho an ‘attaboy slap on the back. “Hey, I’ll let you in on a little secret. San has a pretty face, right, so there was this one time—“

“Oh you are NOT telling this story!” San interjected, throwing himself across the table to shove his good hand over Mingi’s mouth. 

“Let me tell it!”

“I definitely need to hear this,” Jongho smirked devilishly.

Mingi slapped San’s hand away. San slumped back into his chair in defeat. 

“Ok so, back when we first joined the Ops, we had a target who had a thing for tall girls. He liked the legs on them, or something, and we needed a gal to go in undercover. However, all the ladies in our squadron were built pretty short, so I said, ‘hey, what if Sannie went in, he's skinny and all. He's got that tiny little waist—’” Mingi paused to take a big swig of his beer. San gave a proud smile at the compliment. “Anyway, so the girls went to town on him with makeup and all that, and I gotta say, he looked pretty hot. And it actually worked.” 

“Pics or it didn’t happen,” Yunho said flatly.

“Oh, you _know_ I took pictures—“

“I will kill you in your sleep, Mingi. Actually, no, show them. My ass looked so good in those pants. I kept them.” 

“There are some things we don’t need to know.”

“What, I can’t be proud of my ass?” San faux-pouted. He shoved a few fries into his mouth. 

“What happened to the guy?” Jongho asked. 

“San killed him. He was quite the femme fatale," Mingi mumbled with his mouth full of fries.

“Ha-ha. Hey, he had a bomb. I had to.” San rolled his eyes.

“Why do they never give me any exciting missions,” Jongo pouted.

“‘Cause you’re still a baby. Give it time.” 

“The tuna mission wasn’t exciting enough for you?” Yunho teased. 

“We don’t speak of it, Jeong Yunho.” Jongho raised a butter knife in his hand, making pretend stabbing motions in Yunho’s direction. 

“Cheer up, man. Maybe you’ll get some good ones while I’m out of commission.” San added encouragingly. 

“Yeah, how’s your hand?” Jongho aked.

San shrugged. “Still a couple months before I’ll be cleared by the doctor.”

“Damn, it’s taking forever. You really messed it up, huh?”

“Guess so.” San sipped his water. He wished he could have something harder, like a Jack and coke, but alas. Water for him. “I’m going stir crazy.”

“Sannie always complained about wanting a day off, now look at him,” Yunho chimed in. 

“I’m so bored, guys. I’m gonna go insane. You’re gonna come over one day and I’ll be in the fetal position in the corner with, like, backwards writing all over the walls.” San hated being cooped up in his apartment for weeks and months on end. The highlight of his day was heading into the office to handle paperwork, followed by a riveting excursion to visit his physical therapist. If he didn't get to shoot someone soon, he would end up shooting himself out of sheer boredom.

“There, there. I’ll bust you out of the loony bin, don’t worry.” Yunho gave him a thumbs-up. 

“You’re a real one.” 

San’s colleagues drunkenly piled into a taxi. Yunho offered to let him sit in the middle, but he declined in favor of walking home. The pub was only twenty minutes from his apartment, and he was sober. He’d take a nice walk over cramming himself into a taxi with those drunk morons any day. Mingi puked on him once and San had still never forgiven him for it. 

“Later,” San called as the taxi sped off. He began heading back to his apartment. The night air was cool against his face and the streets were quiet. 

He walked slowly, enjoying the feeling of stretching his legs. He didn’t get out as much ever since his leave began. At this rate, by the time he was able to work again, he’d be too out of shape to chase anyone down. He went to the gym with Mingi every so often, but he was basically limited to the treadmill since his hands were off limits for the time being. Maybe if he gave his physical therapist puppy-dog eyes she’d let him do some pushups at least. 

Halfway through his route, a figure came into view. He was a few blocks ahead of San, wearing a dark hoodie and walking somewhat quickly. San felt like something was off about him, for some reason. Call it a sixth sense, but there was a feeling he sometimes got when danger was near. If there was one thing he could count on, it was his intuition. It almost never failed him. 

The figure turned the corner, and San followed him discreetly. It wasn’t the right way back to his apartment, but he couldn’t shake the feeling that nagged at his conscience. If it turned out to be nothing, then so be it. 

After a few minutes of walking, the figure entered a parking garage. San let the figure gain some distance, then followed him inside. He went down the ramp, toward the lower levels. The further they descended, the fewer lights there were. Many of them flickered on and off in eerie yellow strobes.

Once they were down to the third underground level, presumably the lowest, San could hear voices. He ducked behind an SUV that was parked a ways away. Fewer cars were parked in the lower levels, which meant he had fewer options for cover. He crouched, skirting along the edge of the car until he was in a position where he could peek over the hood. 

The hooded figure approached the group, adding himself to the circle. San counted six, including the newest addition. He had to strain his ears to hear what they were saying, but one voice definitely sounded distraught. 

“No—stop!” It was a woman’s voice, and one of them grabbed her by the elbow and flung her across the circle. She stumbled into the arms of the man that San had been following. The man wrapped an arm around her, and she squirmed to escape him. He brought his other hand up to grab a fistful of her hair. He yanked her head back, forcibly exposing her neck. 

“Please!” she sobbed. A couple of the others laughed. San clenched his fist, but remained hidden. The man sank his teeth into her neck. She screamed and thrashed against his hold, but her struggling grew feeble as he drained the blood from her body. Hybrids? All of them, or just him? San was boiling in his skin. He felt helpless, unable to leap in and save her. He was unarmed and injured, and to intervene now would most certainly be suicide. The man pulled back and looked across the circle to one of the others watching. 

“You want some, J?” 

“I’m good.” 

The second voice sounded familiar to him. He leaned further in, trying to get a good view of “J,” but his back was to San. 

“More for me,” sneered the hybrid holding the girl. He continued drinking from her neck. She stopped struggling entirely, and the man let go, letting her body drop lifelessly to the floor. 

San clenched his teeth. He was outnumbered, and at least one of them was a hybrid. Judging by the way he offered to share his kill, there were at least two hybrids in the mix. The best he could do was stay hidden and try to identify their faces. 

“Not my thing,” J shrugged, crossing the circle toward one of the other guys. He removed a hand from his pocket and tossed something at him. 

“What, women?” the guy smirked and caught the thing midair. Someone laughed. 

“Shut it. You know what I mean.”

He turned, and San got a good look at his face. His hair was more of a silver color, and he was sporting glasses now, but it was definitely Wooyoung. Fuck. San wasn’t thrilled at the idea of bumping into him again, but that confirmed his theory of there being at least two hybrids. San started to plan his escape route. While they were distracted with whatever Wooyoung was pulling out of his jacket, he could creep behind the row of cars and back up the way he came. Either that, or he could stay behind the SUV and wait until they left. Hopefully no one else was coming to meet them, because he’d be fucked if he ran into someone on the way out. 

The first hybrid was about to approach Wooyoung, but he stopped, and turned his head right in San’s direction. San ducked, and his blood turned to ice. The action was so deliberate, there’s no way it could have been a coincidence. Was his cover blown? San stayed frozen, listening to what the hybrid was saying. 

“Wait,” he halted. “I smell something.”

“Were you followed?” The voice was different, and it sounded angry. He knew just by San’s smell? He was fucked, if that was the case. How come he couldn’t smell him before? He crouched on the balls of his feet, getting ready to run. He cursed himself for tailing the man while unarmed. 

“You think I’d let someone follow me?” he snapped. “Find him!” 

Not good. San darted to the next car before they broke the circle. He hopped the railing, giving himself a head start in getting to the surface level before they did. He ran as fast as he could without making any sound, crouched low to stay hidden. He came to a clearing in the lot where no one was parked for a good twenty feet or so. He looked back toward the ramp to see if anyone had followed him, then prepared to sprint across the clearing. A hand grabbed his collar, which stopped him in his tracks. 

“Who might you be?” purred the hybrid from before. A grin spread across his face, exposing his sharp fangs. It made San’s whole body go cold in an instant. San twisted, wrenching himself out of the hybrids grip. San landed hard on the pavement. He looked around, but sure enough, the hybrid blocked his only exit. Fuck. He had to think of something, and fast. 

“Guess we’ll never know,” the hybrid shrugged as he reached an arm behind his back. He pulled a gun from the waistband of his jeans and aimed it at San. It gleamed as dim light reflected off of its silver body, and San was sure it would be the last thing he ever saw. 

A gunshot rang out, and the hybrid dropped to the floor like a rock. Blood poured out of his head into a puddle on the pavement. It happened so fast that San had no time to process what had just occurred. Suddenly, San was being yanked off the ground by a hand in his jacket collar. Wooyoung appeared before him, nose-to-nose, looking pissed as hell. 

“You shouldn’t be here,” Wooyoung hissed through clenched teeth.

He started to run, dragging San with him up the ramp. They got to the ground level and kept running. Wooyoung fumbled around in his coat pocket, pulling out a set of keys. The lights of a blacked-out sedan flashed as he unlocked it. 

“Get in,” he snapped. San hopped into the passengers seat with no argument whatsoever. As soon as his door closed, Wooyoung threw it in drive and peeled out of the parking garage, tires squealing. 

“What the hell were you doing in there, San? My clients aren’t friendly people, you know.”

“Clients? Jesus, slow down, you’ll kill us.” 

“What, you gonna give me a ticket?” Wooyoung shot him a smug look. “Seriously, you must have a death wish or something. You don’t fuck with this stuff alone.”

“I wasn’t going to engage. There was something strange about that guy, so I followed him. He didn’t notice me outside, but suddenly he could smell me in the garage? How is that possible?”

“That was one of my buyers, Skin, and it was because he fed on that girl. Our senses are at their best just after feeding. Consider us even, now, by the way.” 

“Even for what, exactly?” 

“For last time. You could have left me as vampire bait, but you didn’t.”

“I didn’t think about it. If I could go back, I would have.” 

“Oh, really?” Wooyoung laughed, and his fangs gleamed in the low light. “That’s too bad. I thought we made a pretty good team.” 

“You drugged me.” 

“You didn’t have to take it.” 

“What was my other option? Death?”

“Yeah, that was your choice.” San scoffed. He was starting to get really pissed off. “Where are we going?” He asked flatly. 

“Just driving.”

There was a period of silence. He should have been concerned about where they were going, but another part of him thought, fuck it, better than sitting at home in total boredom. And if Wooyoung wanted to kill him, he probably would have done so. It had been a while since his last adrenaline rush. What else was he gonna do? Sit at home and watch tv?

“Why do you do this?” San eventually wondered aloud. 

“What do you mean?” Wooyoung asked. His eyes were focused on the road ahead, one hand casually controlling the wheel. 

“You know what I mean,” San huffed.

“What, break the law? Why do you follow it? Passion for justice?” Wooyoung countered.

“In a way, I guess. I wanted to be a policeman when I was a kid,” San shrugged.

“Same here. I’ve always wanted to deal drugs.” 

San knew it was a joke, but it made him feel strange. He’d never thought about the fact that Wooyoung had a childhood. It was easy to forget that hybrids began their lives as humans. “What did you want to do?” he asked out of sheer curiosity.

“As a kid?” Wooyoung raised his eyebrows, shooting San a glance.

“Yeah.”

Wooyoung laughed awkwardly. It was the first time San picked up on an emotion from him other than sarcasm. He wasn’t sure if sarcasm was even an emotion. “I wanted to be a chef. It sounds kinda lame now.” 

“Really?” It came out sounding more shocked than San had anticipated. “Why not do that, then?”

“Are we having a heart-to-heart now?” Wooyoung mocked.

“I don’t know. Do you have a heart?” San shot back.

Wooyoung snorted. “I’m not sure. Do you? You get paid to kill people. That’s pretty cold.” 

“At least I don’t do it for fun.”

“Who said anything about having fun? You seemed to be having an awful lot of fun when you killed those vampires.” 

San felt a surge of anger. “That wasn’t me. Like I said, you drugged me,” he huffed.

“I gave you the sol, you put it in your own mouth. I didn’t force you to do anything.” 

“I wouldn’t have had to take it at all if you let me arrest you peacefully. I was just trying to do my job.” 

“‘Peacefully?’ You shot me. In what world is that a peaceful arrest?” Wooyoung snorted indignantly.

“You’re a hybrid. Gunshots won’t kill you.” 

“You didn’t know I was a hybrid when you shot me.” Wooyoung rebutted.

“Regardless, sometimes force is necessary when subduing a target.” San defended.

“Uh-huh. Whatever.”

Wooyoung ran a hand through his hair. He was quiet for a minute, then spoke again. “You know, I was a soldier before I was made a hybrid.” San looked at him, but Wooyoung’s gaze was fixed forward. “You really wanna hear my story? Why I do this?” 

San nodded. He was curious, definitely. They seemed so close in age, yet their lives couldn’t be more opposite. 

“Alright, then. I was 18 when I enlisted. Right at the start of the war. I was excited about it, until the first time I was deployed. They made us do crazy shit. We ransacked cities and killed innocent people, and we were rewarded. I didn’t get a night's sleep for months. I tried deserting, but I got caught, and my punishment was to be a test subject for their new drug. It didn’t have a name yet. It started out as an IV drip, and the side effects were worse.” San listened intently. He remembered the excruciating pain in his head the morning after he’d taken the drug. He didn’t think anything could be worse than that. 

“The high was pretty much the same. You feel feverish, full of energy, no pain, stuff like that. But the recovery was harsher. I started having seizures every day. I was constantly in pain, I lost feeling in my hands, vomiting, you name it. But they would just adjust the formula and start over. The high was great— I didn’t mind it— but the hangover was killing me. Literally. Then they stopped giving me sol entirely. They didn’t tell me what they were doing, but I heard them say something about a bone marrow transplant. When I woke up, I thought they gave me sol again because of how high a fever I had. But I knew it couldn’t have been, because I felt pain everywhere.”

”Then, when I was healing, I felt strange, and I attacked one of the nurses. I bit her, and her blood tasted good to me. I drained her—she died, I think—and I escaped the hospital. It wasn’t until a while later I actually found out about the hybrid project. I found out through a buddy of mine who I met in the military. He was also made a hybrid, and we were reunited though sheer chance. His story is even more fucked up. But, basically, he escaped too, and all but a small percentage of the hybrids were killed. The military realized their mistake and tried to hide it, but they couldn’t catch all of us. So now, just by existing, I’m breaking the law, I can’t go in the sun, and I have to drink human blood to survive, but on the other hand, I’m gifted with superior strength and healing ability. So, you tell me. What other career options do I have?”

Wooyoung let out a hearty breath. He paused, then looked over at San, eyebrows raised. “What are your thoughts, officer?”

San was speechless. He didn’t know where to begin. He licked his lips, feeling like they had become dry all of a sudden. “I.... I don’t know. Why tell me?” San wondered quietly. 

Wooyoung thought for a second. “I don’t know. Because you asked, I guess. I wonder if you agents have a different version of the story. Why not arrest me?”

“I don’t know.” 

The car was silent for a few breaths. San continued to stare out the window, searching for something to say. 

“So are we not acknowledging that we had sex?” Wooyoung asked, breaking the silence. 

“No. I’m trying to block it out,” San deadpanned.

“It was pretty fun, all things considered.” 

“I was high. I didn’t know what I was doing.” 

“It’s not like being high on sol changes your sexual preferences or anything.”

San sighed. “That’s not what I meant.” 

“So you usually go for guys, then,” Wooyoung smirked.

“I don’t go for criminals.”

“Not even cute ones?” San scoffed at Wooyoung’s pout. Was this guy for real? 

“I don’t appreciate being used as a chew toy,” San grumbled. 

A smile tugged at Wooyoung’s lips. “That’s not the impression I got.” 

“Ugh, just stop. It was the drugs talking," San groaned. Wooyoung seemed to have a good sense of which buttons to press to get San riled up.

“Want me to bite you again and we can find out?” Wooyoung’s smile turned into a full-on smirk. 

“Yeah, you wish. Not gonna happen.” San rolled his eyes.

Wooyoung pouted. “Not even after I saved you?” San ignored him. Wooyoung went back to keeping his gaze out the front windshield. 

“Let me ask you something,” Wooyoung said. His tone had clearly shifted from flirtatious to something more serious. “Do you think we deserve to be killed?”

“I, uh...” San was not expecting to be hit with that kind of question. He racked his brain for a non-answer to give. “It’s not my job to make that call, I just do the arresting.” 

“What do you think happens after we get arrested?” Wooyoung ran his tongue over one of his fangs as he thought.

San didn’t reply. It’s not like he didn’t know the answer, but he didn’t want to be the one to say it out loud. 

“Right, we get killed anyway. So, by that logic, you are the one making that call.” 

“What’s your point?” San sighed.

“I’m just trying to view things from your side, that’s all.”

“I just do what I’m told.”

“What a good dog. The military wants us dead because they’re embarrassed of us. Is that a just cause?” Wooyoung raised his eyebrows. 

“Like I said, it’s not my call—“

“I’m asking your opinion as a person, not as a cop.” 

San took a deep breath. He was ready for this encounter to be over. He didn’t want to get all buddy-buddy with a hybrid. “The military pulled the plug on the hybrid project because they turned out to be too dangerous. They’re a target for elimination because they kill innocent people to survive. So, to protect people, it’s best they don’t live among us,” San answered begrudgingly.

Wooyoung scoffed and shook his head. “That’s still a cop answer. So you think it’s right to take innocent people and turn them into monsters, then hire people to kill the monsters because they kill innocent people?”

“Someone who kills people isn’t innocent.” San felt a muscle in his jaw jump as he clenched his teeth.

“So you’re far from innocent, then. You were never made into a hybrid, you kill by choice because you signed up for this.” Wooyoung’s voice became higher as frustration began leaking in. 

“I didn’t _sign up_ for this!” San snapped, and he could feel his voice getting louder in his chest. He felt like he was being interrogated, and it made him heated. “I never asked to be upgraded to Special Operations. They didn’t give me the luxury of choosing, ok? Now my job is chasing down hybrids and terrorists and getting the shit kicked out of me just to earn my fucking paycheck.” He huffed out a frustrated breath. “And I don’t think I’m innocent! I have blood on my hands to keep others safe, and that’s a price I’m willing to pay.”

“You’re mad that you get hurt on the job? Cry me a river. You have no idea what it’s like for us.” Wooyoung's voice was thick with contempt.

“You make it sound like hybrids have done nothing wrong. Look around, just now I saw a hybrid murder that girl! It happens all the fucking time!” San gave a vague, angry gesture out the window.

“Yeah, and I’m glad I shot him. That asshole made us all look bad," Wooyoung grumbled.

“Yeah, you _murdered_ him. Right in front of me. Don’t act like you’re all high and mighty. You want me to feel sorry for you? Is that it?” San mocked.

Wooyoung laughed. It sounded bitter and devoid of all humor. “You’re mad that I shot someone who was about to kill you?”

“You’re acting like a victim. Don’t act like you’re any better than them.”

“I’m not! At least I don’t act like a righteous tool that thinks his killing is for a good cause! I’ve done some fucked up shit, but I know what I am. I don’t lie to myself," Wooyoung sneered.

“Are you sure about that? You seem pretty self righteous to me. You think self-awareness earns you points?” San was practically yelling at this point. It felt like Wooyoung was provoking him, and it was working. San's chest was hot with anger, his teeth clenched as he fought off the irritated twitch in his fingertips. Wooyoung had somehow gone and pushed all of his buttons, like he was the expert. Push, push, push.

San jolted forward as Wooyoung slammed on the breaks. He had to brace himself against the dashboard to keep himself from breaking his nose. Wooyoung pulled into the emergency lane of the freeway, tires screeching as the car skidded to a stop. 

“You know what? Fuck you. Get out," Wooyoung spat.

San stared at him in disbelief. Wooyoung met his eyes with a challenging glare. Without saying anything, San threw his seatbelt over his shoulder and got out of the car. 

“Classy,” San sneered as he lingered in the door frame.

“I should have let Skin finish the job!” Wooyoung called. 

San slammed the door shut. As soon as it closed, the car took off, leaving San alone on the edge of the freeway. He had no idea where he was or what time it was. He kicked a stray rock on the ground as hard as he could, letting out a grunt of frustration. It flew a good distance, but did nothing to calm his anger. He started to walk towards the closest exit, muttering curses to himself under his breath. What a fucking night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> next chapter will be spicy ;)
> 
> and if you're interested i have a playlist for this fic that goes hard as fuck if you wanna check it out [here!](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/5eGeySTdOkbL7GnwxifYW7?si=Srtv7kQNSbyvS_ZwvoA6hg)


	3. what is this, an interrogation?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> smut chapter!! woohoo

San pulled out a chair and slid into the bar next to Yunho and Jongho. They had arrived before him, and they both looked spiffy as hell, dressed up in expensive suits to match the sophisticated clientele of the Hotel Ruby’s cocktail lounge. 

“Looking sharp,” Jongho complimented as San arrived. He didn’t go all out like they had, instead opting for a crisp black dress shirt and black tie to keep things simple. He had gelled his hair back messily, a few strands loose around his face, but he gave up trying to tame them. But whatever, it looked intentional enough. 

“Thanks, you too.”

“Are you glad to be back or what?” Yunho asked excitedly, giving San an enthusiastic slap on the back. 

“I’m not ‘back’, technically. Chief just said I could tag along on something mellow.”

“When are things ever mellow when you’re involved?” Jongho teased, sipping from a drink he had in front of him. He must have gotten there first and already ordered. 

“It’s just a scout, nothing crazy.”

“Yeah, but watch, things are gonna get crazy because you jinxed it. Given your luck and all.”

“So true,” Yunho chimed in. “Terrorist hideout, bombs everywhere, calling it right now.” 

“I think you’re just jealous I have all the fun missions.”

“I am jealous! I could use a few more scars,” Jongho whined.

“I can help with that,” Yunho teased, playfully winding up a punch. 

“Damn, take it outside, guys!” San raised his hands in mock-deescalation. 

“Okay, remember, eyes peeled. We’re here on business,” Yunho stated in his best serious voice. San watched as he reached into his suit jacket to pull a heavy black credit card from his wallet, tossing it on the bartop with all the swag of a rich CEO who knows not the value of a dollar. 

“I see right through you, Yunho. You just like using your work credit card to open the tab.”

“You reek of ulterior motive,” Jongho added. 

“I do not! Like I said, business.” 

“Alright, mister businessman, don’t get too hammered.” San looked around the lounge, taking in its ambiance to get a feel for it. They were there on business, not just as drinking buddies. They had a potential lead that the Hotel Ruby was sponsoring drug trading under the table, and it drew in clients rich enough to buy the silence of its owner.

The place had a strange interior design concept, with Victorian furnishings and traditional Chinese textiles blended together and bathed in magenta light from the fiery mouth of the enormous dragon sculpture that clung to the ceiling. Everyone in attendance was dressed to the nines in designer, with dazzling jewelry and watches that cost more than San’s car. 

What struck him as odd was the uniform of the wait staff. As San looked around, he noticed that they all wore black face masks adorned with chains in a loose x-shape across the front. Only their eyes were visible, giving them an eerily anonymous aura which was only amplified by the pink light from the dragon’s fire.

“What are you drinking?” A female voice broke into his thoughts. The bartender leaned over toward him, her long black hair cascading far beyond her shoulders and nearly touching the glittering red surface of the bartop. Her tight black dress showed every curvature of her figure, and, though only her eyes were uncovered, she seemed to be looking at San with a great amount of interest. 

“Just a beer. Whatever you recommend,” he replied to her politely. Beer was pretty much all he was allowed to drink, after his last drunken excursion had turned out... well, poorly. She turned to Yunho and took his order as well. He ordered something fancy with a lot of specifications. Dry, stirred, something-something. He ordered really pretentious drinks whenever he wanted to get into character. 

She slipped the credit card off the counter and went to get started on their drinks. Someone at the other end of the bar flagged her down, and San followed her with his eyes. At first it seemed like it was another hotel employee trying to give her a message, but the moment San laid eyes on him his chest burned with anger.

It was Wooyoung, again. He had a mask on like the others, but San could tell it was him. San could recognize that silvery head of hair and smokey, leering gaze anywhere. San hadn’t expected to run into him again so soon. And if he was here, trouble was most certainly abound. Wooyoung leaned in close to her ear when he spoke, making sure no one else could hear them. She nodded, and turned back to the drinks. He began to walk away toward the back of the lounge. 

“I’m gonna walk for a bit,” San told his team abruptly, sliding out of his chair to follow Wooyoung. He had a bone to pick with that bastard, and he certainly wasn’t going to let him off the hook for last time. 

“Oh, uh, alright,” Yunho raised his eyebrows, sounding a little confused why San would do so right after ordering, but didn’t press the matter. 

He weaved his way through the copious bodies crowding the room, following the hybrid close enough so that he wouldn’t lose sight of him, but not so close that he’d be seen. Wooyoung slipped through a door labeled for employee access, and San waited a few seconds before going in after him. It led to a dim hallway lined with doors that were most likely for storage, but San couldn’t be sure. 

There was a bend at the end of the hall, and San crept toward it, peeking his head around the corner to check it the coast was clear. The hallway around the corner led to a staircase, the corridor illuminated by the glow of the exit sign above it. San pondered going up the staircase, but he doubted his ability to do it without getting caught. 

“Are you stalking me?” a voice purred, seemingly from nowhere, and San nearly jumped out of his skin. He turned on his heels, and Wooyoung was right behind him. The hybrid shoved him to the wall easily, a hand pinning him to there by the neck with superhuman strength. He used his free hand to pull the mask away from his face. 

“Agh, fuck,” San coughed around the hand squeezing his throat. 

“I’m busy, so get lost.”

“How did you—“

“I could smell you tailing me.”

“So you just fed, then?” San asked, letting disgust permeate his voice. 

“Why, you jealous?” Wooyoung smirked. 

“Let go of me,” San growled through his teeth. 

“You’re kind of a pain in the ass. I tried extending an olive branch, but you proved to me that you don’t deserve it. How was the walk home?”

“Very refreshing, thanks,” San spat sarcastically. 

“Glad to hear it. What brings you here? If someone tries to shoot you again, I won’t be saving your sorry ass.” Their height difference was noticeable when they were this close, and Wooyoung had to angle his head up to glare into San’s eyes. 

“I heard this hotel is up to something. I’m scoping out the place to see if anyone looks suspicious, and lo and behold, who do I find?” 

“Do you remember what happened the last time you followed someone into unfamiliar territory?”

“Vividly.”

“Mm, and how did that go? Are you dumb, or do you just like to play with fire?”

“I’m just doing my job.”

Wooyoung scoffed. “As always.” His hand fell away from San’s throat and he took a step back. “Get out of here, San. You won’t get another warning.” 

As he turned to make his exit toward the staircase, San socked him in the face as hard as he could with his good hand. He put all of his spite into that punch, and Wooyoung staggered back, shock and anger painted all over his expression. A grin spread across San’s face. Wooyoung clearly hadn’t expected him to do that. “That’s for leaving me on the road,” San said smugly. 

“So you do like to play with fire,” Wooyoung gritted, grabbing San by the tie and yanking him down to eye-level. He lunged for San’s neck, and San braced himself, expecting to feel fangs plunging into his skin. Instead, Wooyoung stopped short, his fangs just barely grazing the sensitive flesh of his throat. San let out a small breath. Wooyoung pulled back just enough that San could see his eyes flick up and down, so quick that he almost didn’t catch it. 

“It pisses me off—“ their faces were mere millimeters apart at this point, “how fucking hot you are.”

Wooyoung crashed their lips together as the final word was coming out of his mouth. His tie was practically choking him with how hard Wooyoung was pulling on it, and he brought his hand up to Wooyoung’s arm, digging his nails into his bicep as he reciprocated the kiss with the same level of anger his earlier punch had carried. San pushed his body forward, forcing Wooyoung to stumble backwards against the wall of the hallway. 

He’d be lying to himself if he said he didn’t still think about the time he fucked Wooyoung months ago. It went against everything he stood for as a cop, but he couldn’t keep the images of the hybrid’s perfect ass out of his head any time his dick got hard. He may have blacked out for some of it, but what he does remember tends to flash into his mind more frequently than he’d ever like to admit. A noise escaped Wooyoung’s lips as his back collided with the wall, and he let go of San’s tie and snaked his arms around his shoulders. 

“Don’t think this means you’re forgiven,” San panted. 

“I don’t, and I still hate you on principle,” Wooyoung smirked, licking into San’s mouth in a manner that was so unashamedly dirty it was almost gross. San groaned deep in his throat as Wooyoung’s fingers tugged at the roots of his hair, yanking his head back to shove his tongue down San's throat. 

San broke the kiss, pulling at Wooyoung’s bottom lip with his teeth as he did so. He started working his way up his jaw, biting a trail up the bone until he got to Wooyoung’s ear. “Glad we’re on the same page,” he purred. 

He felt Wooyoung shudder beneath him. He cupped a hand underneath his chin and twisted his head to the side, giving himself ample room to bite hard onto his neck. San bit him hard enough to make him hiss in pain, and for that he felt proud. Hybrids were known for their pain tolerance, after all. Wooyoung’s nails dug into San’s shoulders so hard he thought they might actually puncture his skin. Good thing his shirt wasn’t white. 

Wooyoung’s brought his hands down, hooking his fingers in the waistband of San’s pants, pulling him in so that their hips were flush. San humored him, grinding forward, his own hardening cock pressing against Wooyoung’s, which earned him a pretty little gasp. His pants were starting to feel uncomfortably tight, especially with the way that Wooyoung squirmed against him each time San delivered a fresh bite to his skin. 

“Fuck,” Wooyoung laughed breathlessly. “You secretly a hybrid?”

San laughed against his neck, just a slight puff of air. His dick demanded attention, or at least an escape from his pants, and he became aware of the fact that they were still in a hallway. Technically, his coworkers were right outside in the bar, and though they probably wouldn’t come inside, it wouldn’t be great for San if they were to walk in on this. “Any of these rooms open, or should I fuck you right here in the hallway?” San panted, pulling back with a coy grin. 

“Mm, would that be a bad thing? You're dirty for a cop. I feel like I'm in a porno,” Wooyoung quipped, pushing San off so he could try one of the doors. One was locked, but the second one opened when he turned the knob. “Here, this one." 

The room was fairly small and was mostly stacked from floor to ceiling with boxes on shelves. There was a table toward the back, and it called to San immediately. It had a couple boxes on it, but it looked sturdy enough. If not, then they’d find out the hard way. San shut the door behind them, and the room immediately went pitch black. He fumbled around with the handle in the dark, making sure he felt the lock turn into place. There was a thump as Wooyoung shoved one of the boxes off the table onto the floor, and he felt hands in his waistband immediately after. 

Wooyoung’s hands started working at his belt, and relief washed over him as soon as his pants were undone, getting to release some of the pressure that was strangling his dick. San couldn’t help the moan that escaped him as Wooyoung palmed the front of his boxers, and he leaned into the touch eagerly. He slid a hand under the hem of Wooyoung’s shirt. The silky fabric felt cold against his fingers, but Wooyoung’s skin was warm, and he gave his hip a bruising squeeze. Though he couldn’t see anything, he could feel how close Wooyoung was to him from the faint sensation of breath tickling his neck. A hot tongue licked at his jaw, and a fang grazed the skin but didn’t break it. It sent a chill down his spine. 

Wooyoung gripped San by the front of his shirt and started walking backwards, guiding him farther into the storage room. Eventually, Wooyoung’s thighs hit the table, and he sat on it, wrapping his legs around San to trap him against his body. San braced his arms on the table, caging Wooyoung in. It was clear that Wooyoung wanted him to take control, letting San feel like he was the stronger of the two. 

San tried to lift Wooyoung’s shirt off, but it proved difficult with just one hand. Wooyoung took pity on him and flung it off. San ran his hand along Wooyoung’s chest until he felt the raised surface of one of his nipples, then started rubbing little circles over it with the pad of his thumb. Wooyoung sighed and rutted his hips against San’s, obviously growing impatient as well. Wooyoung undid his pants, hopping off the table momentarily to slide them all the way off, kicking them aside somewhere. He scooted back onto the table, now completely naked. San followed suit, kicking off his pants and tossing his shirt over his shoulder. 

San brought his body forward to rut against Wooyoung, their exposed cocks grinding together in a way that sent sparks of pleasure throughout his body. Wooyoung kissed him again, rough and merciless. He felt Wooyoung was trying to choke him to death with his tongue, but the desperation he exuded in doing so was a massive turn-on. He wrapped a hand around both of their cocks, and Wooyoung whined into his mouth. He stroked them together, and it felt amazing, but seeing Wooyoung turn into a whining mess felt even better. He wanted to fuck the arrogance right out of him; he wanted to hear him scream San’s name as he came undone. A smile spread across his face as an idea hit him. He was here on business, after all, so why not get a little work done?

San let go of their cocks and brought his hand up to Wooyoung’s lips. “Open,” he demanded, brushing against Wooyoung's mouth with his fingertips. Wooyoung obeyed, opening his mouth and closing it around San’s two fingers, spreading hot saliva over them as he sucked. Wooyoung chomped on one of his fingers with a sharp fang, snickering as San flinched. San grabbed his chin, holding his head firmly in place. 

“Do _not_ bite me,” he growled in Wooyoung’s ear, letting go of his chin to bring his hand back to Wooyoung’s mouth. He placed his fingers inside, and Wooyoung closed his lips around them, running his tongue between his fingers as he sucked. Once San decided they were sufficiently coated, he moved his hand down between Wooyoung’s legs, brushing against his entrance with his slick fingers. Wooyoung let out a shaky breath. 

“You don’t need to do that. Just put it in,” Wooyoung breathed. 

“Shut up,” San snapped, silencing him. He pushed a finger in, enjoying the sounds that came out of Wooyoung’s mouth as he did so. San wasn't in the mood to take orders from Wooyoung. 

“Oh, fuck,” Wooyoung groaned. San added another finger, moving them in and out slowly, pressing with the pads of his fingertips, rocking inside of him with varying levels of pressure. It was a little difficult with his left hand, but he stuck with it, bracing his other hand against the table. 

“Ah!” Wooyoung cried out, digging his nails into San’s shoulders. San repeated the same motion, and Wooyoung started to writhe under him. He did it again and again, stroking his fingers against the spot that made Wooyoung lose his mind. “Fuck—ah,” he panted, his forehead falling forward against San’s shoulder. Wooyoung wasn’t shy with his vocalizations, which was something that inspired both admiration and arousal in San. He made no effort to quiet his moans of pleasure as San pounded him with his fingers. He could tell Wooyoung was getting close by way his pitch kept getting higher and his cursing became more frequent. He massaged into him harder, giving him one last teasing stroke before stilling his fingers. 

“Don’t stop! What the hell?” Wooyoung panted indignantly. 

San smiled in the darkness, and he was sure Wooyoung could see it. “Answer me, and you’ll get to cum,” he purred in Wooyoung’s ear. “Who do you work for?” He crooked his fingers just enough to earn a gasp.

“What? What is this, an interrogation? Ah!” San rocked his fingers again, making Wooyoung cut off his own question with a moan. 

“Mhm,” San affirmed. “I’d suggest you cooperate.”

“Fuck—ahh—you!” 

“Answer me.” San alternated between pounding into him and going completely still, giving him just enough stimulation to keep him wanting more. “Who runs the show here?”

“Me, so I’d watch it if I were you,” Wooyoung panted, his breath hot against San’s shoulder. 

“You’re in charge here?”

“Fuck!” He cried at a particularly well-placed stroke. “Yeah, at the Ruby. Don’t expect me to rat anyone out.”

“How many people work for you?”

“Not—telling,” he gritted through clenched teeth. San hammered his fingers into him until he writhed, cries for mercy echoing against the walls of the storage room. San didn’t relent, keeping his pace up until Wooyoung started digging his nails into his skin again, clinging to him for dear life. “Ahh, fuckfuckfuck, San, oh my god.”

“Answer.”

“Screw you,” Wooyoung spat. “Isn’t this—hah—cruel and unusual punishment?” 

“Oh, trust me, you haven’t seen cruel yet,” San smirked. Wooyoung gave a frustrated whine. 

As fun as it was for San to mess with Wooyoung, he was also inadvertently torturing himself. He was painfully hard, cock jolting every time Wooyoung cried his name, like it was begging to bury itself in his tight ass. He wanted to play his aloof role a little longer, though. He didn’t want Wooyoung thinking he had that that kind of effect on him. “Fine, why do they call you J?” San asked breathily, trying to mask the arousal that was creeping into his voice. 

“Huh? My name, J-Jung Wooyoung,” he stuttered, taken aback by the switch of questions. Cute. 

San was all out of patience. He arched his fingers one last time, giving them a hard drag against Wooyoung’s soft interior before pulling them out entirely. Wooyoung was breathing hard, skin burning and coated in sweat. As soon as San pulled away, he fisted a hand in his hair and dragged his head forward until their lips were nearly touching. 

“If you don’t fuck me right now, I swear to god—“ Wooyoung growled in his face. 

“You’ll what?” San taunted, savoring the way Wooyoung was getting all riled up because of him. Wooyoung nipped at his jaw, and San could feel his lips turn up into a smile. 

“I’ll leave a nice big bite on your neck. Have fun explaining that to your friends out there,” he sneered, giving his jaw a quick lick for good measure. San couldn’t help the shudder that ran down his back and all the way to his cock. San backed away from the table, then put his hand on top of Wooyoung’s head and pushed. 

“Get it wet,” he commanded lowly, guiding Wooyoung’s head down to his crotch. Wooyoung didn’t even argue. He knelt on the floor in front of San. He wasted no time fitting the whole thing in his mouth, clearly not fucking around. 

San couldn’t help the moans that spilled from his mouth as his cock finally got some attention, and so suddenly. Wooyoung licked all over it, giving it a thick coating of saliva with his tongue. Wooyoung moaned around the shaft, probably just to put on a show, and the vibrations made San’s cock twitch. Wooyoung deliberately let a fang graze the sensitive tip of his cock, and San hissed in surprise. 

“Oops,” Wooyoung pouted cheekily. 

San grabbed a fist full of his hair and yanked him back up, roughly spinning him around until he was bent over the table. San really wished he could see in the dark like Wooyoung could, but alas, he had to settle for feeling around his ass with his hands. Not too much of a bummer, he supposed. San gave Wooyoung's ass a hard slap, earning him a cute yelp. 

San lined his cock up with Wooyoung’s entrance, giving it a gentle push until it started to slip in. He pushed slowly until he was fully sheathed, cursing the whole way at the tightness that left him breathless. Wooyoung let out a sigh as San entered him, fingernails scraping against the table. 

It bothered him how much he thought about the last time he’d fucked Wooyoung. It was quick and hot and dirty—literally dirty, they were covered in blood and dirt in an abandoned bus—but it stood out in his mind more than any other sexual encounter he’d ever had. It was so memorable that he couldn’t keep it out of his head if he tried. Wooyoung would have a field day if he ever knew how much he got under San’s skin. The last time had been a hazy, drug-fueled lust rampage, but this time his mind was crystal clear, much to San's chagrin. 

It bothered him how easily he let his dick control him. San didn’t have the excuse of being high this time—he was just a terrible, negligent, horny cop. And it bothered him that the rebellion felt so damn good. He shouldn’t be feeling this way. A cop shouldn’t be getting off on breaking the law and now abandoning his post like a rebellious teenager. But there he was, getting off. 

“Goddamn,” San breathed, swallowed whole with how tight Wooyoung was. He snapped his hips forward, then again, and again, setting a hard pace that made Wooyoung fall flat against the table, sobbing out a mix of San’s name and some other gibberish. 

He started railing into Wooyoung like it was a punishment for kicking him out onto the side of the road. It kind of was, in a way, only Wooyoung was enjoying himself way too much for it to really be considered punishment. San could pretend, anyway. Wooyoung was practically screaming as San pounded him, yelling strings of profanities at the top of his lungs, and San clamped a hand over Wooyoung’s mouth to mask the sounds. 

At this rate, someone would definitely hear them from outside. Hopefully no wandering employee would happen to pass by. San almost couldn’t believe this was the same person from before, moaning and sobbing against the table beneath him. The snarky, arrogant hybrid who was making threats against him earlier was now bent over a table screaming San’s name. This was just too good—San wanted to savor it, committing it to memory for future enjoyment. Wooyoung’s nails were practically scratching the varnish off the table as he neared his limit, his moans vibrating against San’s hand that was sealed over his mouth. San was close too, but he had one last idea he wanted to carry out. He leaned over Wooyoung until their bodies were flush, San's lips right against his ear. 

“Are you sorry for what you did?” he growled harshly against Wooyoung's ear. San moved his hand away so Wooyoung could speak, grabbing his chin to force his head upwards. 

“Y-yeah, oh, fuck—" 

“Tell me you’re sorry.”

“A-ah, I’m—I’m sorry! I’m s-sorry!” Wooyoung sobbed pathetically. “Fuck, San, please—“

San had had it with his own game. He thrusted mercilessly until he felt Wooyoung tighten around him as his climax hit. San slapped a hand over Wooyoung’s mouth just in time, silencing the scream of pleasure that erupted from his mouth. Someone definitely would have heard them otherwise, San had no doubt about that. Wooyoung’s body went stiff, then relaxed as he finished, and San followed suit, his orgasm hitting so hard that he’s sure his vision would have blacked out if not for the room already being dark. 

San collapsed forward, the sound of heavy breathing pervading the store room as they both struggled to regain their breath. Wooyoung was squished against the table thanks to San's sweaty body. San peeled himself up after catching his breath, slipping out of Wooyoung and leaning with his back against a shelf to recover. Wooyoung fell to his knees, his upper body presumably still glued to the table. 

“You’re evil,” Wooyoung sighed after a few beats.

San scoffed and started feeling around for his clothes with his foot. God knows where he’d thrown them, and it was much too dark to see.

“Truce?” Wooyoung suggested, feet shuffling as he dragged himself off the floor. 

“Pfft. You wish.” San's toe knocked against one of his shoes, and reached down to scoop it up, making a pile of clothes he was pretty sure were his. 

“Aw, need help?” Wooyoung taunted.

“No. I got it.” In reality, San was struggling. He had yet to find his other shoe. Damn his shitty, human eyes.

“Try the light switch, dumbass,” Wooyoung scoffed. 

San was surprised he had the audacity to call him a dumbass after he just fucked him silly, but then again, he wasn’t. He walked until his hand bumped the wall, then felt around for a switch. He flipped it, then screwed his eyes shut as the light came on and blinded him. He gathered up his clothes and started re-dressing, starting with his underwear. Wooyoung did the same, pulling on his very tight pants and throwing a silky shirt over his head. He ran a hand through his hair to smooth the tousled silver stands that stuck up in all directions. San probably had a similar look about him. He would have to make up an excuse for returning with a different hairstyle. 

Wooyoung was blatantly checking him out as he buckled his belt, still absent a shirt. “What?” San asked, briefly looking up at him. 

“Nothing. It was dark, I didn’t get a good view before.”

“I thought you could see in the dark.”

“Well, yeah. I can.” Wooyoung smirked, leaning his back against a shelf. San got his shirt over his head, thankful he didn’t have to spend the time buttoning all of the buttons. He was ready to get out of there. He had no idea how long he’d been gone, but if he was lucky, Yunho and Jongho would be somewhat drunk already and might not know how long he’d been gone either. Fingers crossed. 

He threw on his shoes—bless Yunho for getting him slip on shoes while his arm was healing; tying shoelaces with one hand was a bitch and a half—and smoothed his hair back to its original position the best he could. He folded his tie and shoved it in his pocket, hoping they wouldn't notice it was missing. He flung the door open as soon as he was sure he was somewhat presentable and set out down the hallway. 

“Good luck with your mission!” Wooyoung half-assedly called after him as he left the room. He said nothing to Wooyoung, leaving him high and dry in the storage room with cum stains to clean up himself. He wasn’t in the mood for post-coital smalltalk, especially when he was technically on the job and technically breaking a lot of rules by not arresting Wooyoung. Once back in the lounge, he headed for where Yunho and Jongho were sitting. He slid back into his seat as nonchalantly as possible.

“What’d I miss?” 

“Your beer is warm. You good man?” Yunho asked with a slight drunken concern. His cheeks were rosy, so he could tell. 

“Uh, yeah, I felt sick all of a sudden. I’m good now,” he replied, hoping that wouldn’t elicit any questions. 

“Well, so far so good out here. Nothing all that sketchy happening. It’s a little too clean, if you ask me. It sets off my spidey-senses.”

San frowned a bit. “I agree. Something about the vibe this place has.” It wasn’t a lie, that part was definitely true. The Ruby had organized crime written all over it, so it’s no wonder he would run into Wooyoung here of all places. It would’ve been more strange to disagree with Yunho’s assessment. 

“So what’s the plan, boss?” Jongho asked. 

“Boss? Me?” Yunho's eyebrows shot up, and he gave Jongho a bright smile. San always thought Yunho didn’t look the part of a special government agent, he was way too sunshine-y to be intimidating. That is, until one got on his bad side—but that was a rare occurance, instances of which San could probably count on two hands.

“Yeah, boss,” San humored him. He hoped he was giving them one of his regular, happy smiles and not one that reeked of guilt. He had an excellent poker face, but not when it came to Yunho, who had the ability to read people like a book. 

“Ah, as the boss, I say just keep an eye out. We’ll come back in a few nights for another round and see if anything changes.”

Yep, the thing he was dreading. Of course they would be coming back. And, knowing Wooyoung, he’d be waiting. 

“Aye-aye,” San saluted enthusiastically. On the inside, though, his stomach twisted with anxiety. 

And, well, maybe just a little excitement.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for reading ilysm!!! comments are super super super appreciated!!!
> 
> and if you're interested i have a playlist for this fic that goes hard as fuck if you wanna check it out [here!](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/5eGeySTdOkbL7GnwxifYW7?si=Srtv7kQNSbyvS_ZwvoA6hg)


	4. you’re kind of a loose cannon, that’s all

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> holy shit guess who finally updated?? anyway yeah sorry that took so long but here’s some smut pls forgive me

San found himself underneath those fiery magenta lights again not two nights later. This time, he was accompanied by Yunho and Mingi; Jongho was absent due to finally getting assigned a decent mission. The Ruby was quieter than it was the other night, but not by much. Bodies still moved and churned like waves all around him, hands raised with drinks toward the ceiling as they spun and danced to the music. The sound of the bass vibrated up through his shoes and into his chest, shaking him to the very core with its groove. It put him in the mood to have a drink and grab a dance partner, but his work obligations prevented him from doing so. He shot Mingi a pouty look. Mingi just replied with a sympathetic nod. 

San wove his way through to the bar, doing his best not to smack drinks out of people’s hands as he squeezed though clusters of bodies. He scanned the crowd as he went, casually moving to the music to blend in with everyone else. A girl crashed right into him, obviously drunk on her feet, then blatantly felt him up as he steadied her with his hand. She leaned into his chest, fluttering her boudoir eyelashes up at him as she pressed her breasts against his body. Though the light was dim, he could see the way her pupils were blown much to wide to be passed off as just attraction. 

One girl on drugs wasn’t a nail in the coffin for the Ruby or anything, but it certainly kept them pointed in the right direction. Where there was one, there were bound to be more. He wasn’t into women much, but they were certainly into him, and sometimes that played to his advantage. He put on a tipsy, flirtatious air and pulled her in closer by the waist. 

“You alright, beautiful?” he purred, leaning in so he could speak against her ear. 

She giggled and squirmed in his grasp. “Mm, I don’t know, might need you to help me get home,” she slurred, giving San sultry bedroom eyes. 

“But you look like you’re having so much fun here,” he gave a knowing wink. “I’d love to join.”

She caught on to what he meant and gave him a sly little smile. “Fresh out. Guess you’ll have to come home with me if you want some.” She traced a finger along his chest, long red fingernail caressing the stark white of his dress shirt. 

“I’ll come find you later,” he breathed against her ear, maneuvering her to the side so he could slip around. It was obviously a lie, but he didn’t want to waste his time on a random party girl with no underground ties. She pouted as he pulled away, but quickly moved on to find her next victim. He probably came off as a drug-seeking douche, but whatever. He was undercover, so that wouldn’t be a bad role to play. He watched as she slipped away, gracefully enough to make him think her drunk fall was a ploy to try and get into his pants. A fellow actor— takes one to know one.

“I feel like I should make a joke about how women literally throw themselves at you,” Mingi huffed, coming up behind San as they reached a small clearing on the floor. 

“I’m just that charming,” San shrugged. Yunho emerged from the sea of people and joined them in their little clearing. 

“How is that even fair? You don’t even like chicks, but they always want to get in your pants," Mingi whined.

“Sannie has a playboy face, you’re more like the intimidating tough-guy.” Yunho assured, switching facial expressions from smoldering pout to his idea of a frown as he imitated San and Mingi respectively. The frown was too cute to really give off the correct impression, but frowning wasn’t really something Yunho ever did. At most, he got a stern sort of look of his face whenever they worked a serious mission, but anger just wasn’t in Yunho’s dictionary. 

“Yeah, you scare them away.” San stuck out his tongue cheekily. 

“Am I scary?” Mingi asked, turning toward Yunho for moral support. 

“Little bit,” Yunho laughed, holding up his finger and thumb in a just-a-little gesture. 

“But I’m sensitive,” Mingi pouted. 

“I’ll put that on a button for you,” Yunho faux-sympathized, patting Mingi’s shoulder like a supportive bro. “Drinking tonight?” 

“You buying?” Mingi asked. Yunho winked. He had a mischievous look on his face that always appeared when he got to use the work credit card. 

Yunho tossed the card to San. “Get me something good. I love this song!” Yunho sashayed away as he yelled to them, moving his body to the rhythm that pounded San’s ears from every direction. San shook his head. Yunho wasn’t even drunk and he was already flexing his mad dance skills. Wasn’t San the one who always got shit for playing around while on missions? Well... he did do his fair share of _playing_ last time he was there. But that was his little secret. 

They let Yunho disappear into the crowd and headed for the bar. The long, shimmering red countertop was fairly occupied, but they were able to find two open two open spots at one end.

“What are you getting Yunho?” Mingi asked, plopping into the swiveling seat next to San. 

“Just get two of whatever you’re getting. I’m not gonna try to order one of his stupid complicated drinks.” 

San played with the heavy black card in between his fingertips, leaning over the bar top like a casual patron of the establishment. They were marketing executives at a Fortune 500 company, if anyone were to ask. Which company? It didn’t matter, according to Yunho, the elected “boss” of the group. “Just tell them you never tell anyone where you work until the third date” he had said beforehand. If Yunho was a genius or just lazy, he would never know, but the less of a false story he had to make up for himself, the better. 

Despite the three of them being basically the same age, Yunho always ended up in the leadership role. Mostly because he claimed to have the same MBTI test results as Barack Obama, former United States President, so that had to mean something, apparently. No one ever argued, so whatever. 

“Hey,” a voice cut into his thoughts. He nearly jumped out of his skin when he turned back to the bar, face-to-face with none other than Jung fucking Wooyoung. He was the bartender? Seriously? 

“Hey, uhh—“ San stuttered, caught way off his guard. 

“Hey! Two Long Islands,” Mingi bellowed with his booming voice, holding up two fingers. Wooyoung’s eyes pierced through San as he sat motionless in his seat. Hopefully he wasn’t going make any indication that they knew each other. It wouldn’t be in his best interest to, but he had a sadistic look in his eye that San wasn’t so sure of anymore. He smiled politely, not wanting to react in a way that would instill suspicion in Mingi. 

“You?” Wooyoung asked San. 

“I, uhh—“ San started, but Mingi (thankfully?) cut him off by speaking on his behalf. 

“Nahh, this guy’s sober! Almost one year now!” Mingi boomed, gripping San’s shoulders in a brotherly vice. He had the tendency to overshare, but it was one of his more charming qualities sometimes. 

“Uh, yeah,” San laughed meekly. Hopefully his awkwardness was coming off more like shyness. He saw something like amusement twinkling in Wooyoung’s eyes, and San could imagine him smirking underneath his mask. 

“Oh, congratulations,” Wooyoung hummed, a tasteful hint of sarcasm on the undertone. “Sounds like there’s a story behind that.” 

San slid the credit card to him to let Mingi pay for his drinks. “Not so much,” San deterred, eyes following Wooyoung’s hand as he lifted the card from the bartop. He had beautiful hands, to be honest; copious rings adorning slender fingers that San couldn’t help but to imagine wrapping around his cock. Wooyoung met his eyes once more, smokey gaze analyzing him like a cat. 

Without another word, he turned and stepped away to work on the drinks. Mingi turned to him with a big grin. “Killin’ it tonight!” Mingi stage-whispered.

“What?” San asked, instinctively mirroring Mingi as he leaned in to speak. 

“The bartender was hardcore checking you out.” He cringed a little bit, knowing that Wooyoung could probably still hear them over the blaring music. San often flirted to get information while undercover, so it might not be all that bad to play that out for a while. 

“What’d I tell you? I’m just that charming,” San shrugged with a theatrical aloofness. 

“I almost believe it,” Mingi scoffed. San turned back to watch Wooyoung work. He was faced away from San, reaching for a bottle of something clear and expensive. His shoulders were relaxed, and all of his movements had a fluidity that was graceful and sexy. He wore a silken black shirt that accentuated his slender frame, yet was loose enough that it flowed across his body in delicate folds. He had a few too many buttons undone, and as he turned to hand off the drinks to Mingi, San caught a glimmer of a thin, silver necklace sitting right at the base of his throat, forcing his gaze to settle on the curve of his collarbone. 

San’s mouth went dry as nasty thoughts began to invade his mind. He imagined ripping the necklace off with his teeth as he fucked Wooyoung on the bar, the latter screaming San’s name so loud everyone could hear it above the music. He gave himself a mental slap. He didn’t want to let himself be controlled by his penis. But with Wooyoung looking him up and down with those devilish, shadowy eyes, there was only so much he could do. Mingi winked at San as he took his drinks and slid out of the seat. 

“I’m gonna go find Yunho,” he announced, giving San nonverbal cues that his job was to stay and get intel from the bartender. That would be the obvious course of action. 

“Alright,” he nodded in affirmation of the task at hand. Mingi slipped away into the crowd after Yunho, doing a bizarre half-dance as he tried not to spill the drinks on the way. 

Wooyoung leaned against the surface of the bar across from San. “I got caught checking you out,” he pouted. As he leaned over, his loose shirt opened up even more, exposing a good bit of his chest, and San had a hard time keeping his eyes up. 

“That’s not very professional,” San quipped. The idea of being professional was starting to become an inside joke for them. 

“My apologies. You’re the best looking customer I’ve had all day, it caught me off guard.” Wooyoung placed a hand over his heart dramatically.

“Like you haven’t been expecting me this whole time,” San scoffed.

“I’m just trying out method acting. Can I get you something, sir? Oh, wait, you’re sober, I forgot. You never struck me as a recovering alcoholic.” 

“I’m full of surprises,” San said dryly. 

“Like substance abuse?” Wooyoung raised his eyebrows. 

San laughed uncomfortably. “Not exactly.” Wooyoung said nothing, but stared at San curiously. San threw a quick glance over his shoulder to make sure neither of his coworkers were nearby. “I, uh... if I get caught getting drunk, they’ll throw me off the force,” he answered slowly, lowering his voice.

“Why’s that? Your buddies are getting drunk right now.”

“I’m kind of a rowdy drunk,” San said hesitantly. 

“Mm, I knew there was a story." Wooyoung rested his cheek into his palm, elbows propped on the bartop.

San bit his lip. He really wasn’t supposed to talk about this with anyone, but Wooyoung seemed like an exception. He had already made a few bad decisions, what could one more really hurt? He looked over his shoulder once more. 

“About a year ago I got into a really bad bar fight. I was wasted, and I nearly beat the guy to death. I was a cop at the time, but they said they’d cut me a deal and keep me out of prison if I joined the Special Ops. When I asked why, they said something about my aggression making me a good candidate for the team.” San spoke quietly, knowing that Wooyoung could still hear him. He shuddered internally at the memory. It was a serious mess at the time, and he was grateful they dropped the charges, since things had looked pretty grim after the incident. 

At San’s final sentence, Wooyoung rolled his eyes. “Of course. You guys are like pit bulls— bred to kill and praised for aggression. You really think there’s nothing sketchy about that?” 

“I don’t get to question it. And I’m grateful that I still have a job.” And, well, grateful to not be in prison for first degree assault.

“A job you hate?”

San frowned. “When did I say that?”

“If you liked your job, wouldn’t you be better at it?” Wooyoung teased, eyes crinkling as he smiled under his mask. 

“Fuck you,” San countered, but it lacked a real punch. Wooyoung had a point, after all. San was technically withholding information from the government at that very moment, which was incredibly illegal. Obstruction of justice, blah blah. “You suck at yours too. Aren’t you supposed to stay away from cops?” San teased.

“Hey, you came to me. It’s not my fault you can’t stay away. And I’m an excellent bartender, by the way.” 

“Hey, I didn’t choose this place,” San shrugged.

“Where would you go if you could choose? My bedroom?” Wooyoung teased coyly. That line was so awful and smooth at the same time that San couldn’t help but crack a tiny smile. 

“A stakeout in your lair? So you can capture me and drain me?” San narrowed his eyes with mock suspicion.

“The only thing I wanna drain is your cock,” Wooyoung purred, leaning in to initiate an intense staring contest with San. San's dick must have heard him say that, because it was starting to wake up a little. Whenever Wooyoung was in the picture, his dick suddenly overruled every rational thought that occurred in his brain. He swallowed, and Wooyoung’s eyes flickered down, like he knew he was getting under San’s skin. 

More filthy images filled his head. It was like there was an alter ego living inside of him that cared about nothing other than getting his dick wet. He licked his lips. 

“I, uh,” he started, trying to shake the thoughts out of his head. “I have to be professional. I’m working,” he said to Wooyoung, but mostly to himself. Wooyoung leaned in even closer, just barely breaching his personal space bubble. 

“You were working last time,” he said, voice sweet and tempting like a demon. “Isn’t it kinda fun to break the rules?” Wooyoung continued leering at him with those deadly, shadowy eyes. 

It _was_ fun. Too fun. San had an issue with being impulsive as it was, the last thing he needed was a sexy vampire bartender shattering his willpower.

“You’re kind of a bad boy for a cop,” Wooyoung continued when San said nothing. “Getting in bar fights, taking sol, hooking up with wanted criminals... it’s kinda hot. It makes me wanna corrupt you even more.”

San scoffed. “Corrupt me? Yeah, right. You’re kinda up your own ass, that’s for sure.” 

“Wanna trade places?” He snickered. San nearly choked. 

“You wish.” 

Wooyoung grabbed a napkin from somewhere under the bar and produced a pen from one of his pockets. He’s scribbled something onto it and pushed it over to San with one index finger. San examined it. It looked like a phone number. Wooyoung wouldn’t give him his actual phone number, would he? He noted the line under the last three digits, seemingly separating them from the rest. 

“Hit me up when you’re off, I have work to do,” Wooyoung winked, turning to walk away. San looked at the napkin again. The number 'nine hundred' was underlined, but not the rest. The first few digits were from an area code he didn’t recognize, which added to the feeling that it wasn’t a real number. A room number, maybe. It would make sense that Wooyoung had a hotel room here, either because he made enough to afford one or he was in cahoots with the man who owned the place. It was a little baffling why he would go out of his way to write it in code, but maybe he he was accounting for his colleagues possibly seeing the note. Most likely he was doing it just to make San’s life harder.

He folded the napkin twice and slid it into his inside jacket pocket. He stood up out of his chair to find Mingi and Yunho in the sea of people. 

San kicked himself mentally as he stood outside of room 900. He had mentally kicked himself the whole elevator ride up to the top floor, and all the way down the hallway. Yet, somehow, there he was. Against all better judgement. Deliberately going to Wooyoung’s hotel room was most certainly a terrible idea. Scratch that—probably his worst idea so far. 

As he raised his fist to knock, he tried arguing with his dick one last time before his fate was sealed. Unfortunately, his dick was was the judge and the jury and overruled his every plea. He was all wound up thanks to Wooyoung’s innuendo-filled banter at the bar, and now he was hoping those three numbers actually did correspond to the room in front of him. Sure, he could get sex plenty of other places—he wasn’t an unattractive guy by any means—but something about Wooyoung made him crave more.

He took a breath and knocked on the door. A few seconds later the handle turned and the door swung open to reveal Wooyoung’s perpetually smug face. It pissed him off, but deep down he was actually glad it was him. Another part of him felt deeply ashamed coming to a hybrid’s hotel room for a booty call, but he shoved it to the back of his mind. 

“Wow, I wasn’t sure if you’d actually come or not.” Wooyoung raised his eyebrows as he leaned against the door.

“I’m just staking out the place for intel. You look pretty suspicious to me,” San quipped cheekily. 

“Intel, uh-huh.” Wooyoung moved aside, opening the door wider as indication for San to come in. He stepped inside somewhat hesitantly after him, looking around as he entered. The place followed the same design concept as the bar had, with decadent Victorian furnishings melded together with bright red Chinese textiles and contemporary light fixtures. It was the perfect mix of boujee and strange that screamed mafia boss hideaway, complete with thick blackout curtains that Wooyoung probably had installed himself. 

“What, you waiting for an ambush or something?” Wooyoung asked, plopping down on the couch. He was still in his silky black top from earlier, looking especially vampish as he relaxed into the luscious red sofa. The room was fairly dim, just a few lamps producing light from different corners of the room. The place was huge, with a living room area completely separate from the bedroom, which San could tell was also huge. It had to be one of the biggest suites the hotel offered. 

“I wouldn’t put it past you,” San replied distractedly. There were clothes and empty liquor bottles scattered randomly around the room, giving the impression that Wooyoung had been camped out there for some time. “You live here?” 

“Yeah, for now. Kind of a weird place, right? Not that I’m complaining. The owner and I have an....agreement. So he lets me stay here," Wooyoung explained vaguely.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I shouldn’t say too much,” Wooyoung shushed, placing a finger over his lips. “Sit down.” He gestured to the other sofa that sat across from his, separated by a coffee table covered in bottles. 

“Is the housekeeper scared of you or something?” 

“Ha, they don’t come here. It’s kind of a mess right now ‘cause I’ve been busy. My bad.” 

“Right, busy,” San mocked, throwing up air quotes. Wooyoung smirked as San sat on the sofa across from him. He really didn’t know what he expected by coming, but sitting down for a one-on-one conversation wasn’t really it. 

“Champagne?” Wooyoung asked as he was already pouring some into a glass from one of the bottles on the table. 

“I don’t really, uh...” San trailed off. “And wait, isn’t it still morning for you?”

“You think I’m gonna rat you out?” Wooyoung asked, pushing the glass across the table. Fuck it. Just one more thing the bureau would have his head for. “And yeah, but but society’s rules don’t really apply to me, do they?” 

San rolled his eyes. Wooyoung poured himself a glass, then leaned back into the couch. “Look, I know you came here wanting some ass, but you’ll have to humor me first. You think I’m just gonna open my legs whenever you want?”

San felt a little offended after being so blatantly called out like that. “Humor you? Alright, fine, what do you want?” 

“I thought of a fun game we could play.”

“What, like truth or dare?”

“Kinda. We take turns asking each other questions, and you have the choice to answer, to take a drink, or to take off a piece of clothing.” 

San suddenly felt like he was in college again. He shifted in his seat, deliberating with himself on whether or not this all was a good idea. Well, it probably wasn’t, but that’s his own damn fault for coming in the first place. On the other hand, it was a good opportunity to gain some insight into the Ruby situation. “So... like, an interrogation drinking game?” 

“Exactly. You can start if you want. Ask me some tough questions, and you might get to see me naked,” Wooyoung said, winking. 

San pondered for a moment, thinking of questions that could actually help with his mission. He knew already that Wooyoung was in charge of the drug operation at the Ruby, but there was plenty he didn’t know yet.

“How long have you been working out of the Ruby?” he asked. That was pretty safe to start with, and something the other would probably be willing to answer. 

“Mm, a few months. How many of your agent friends are staking out the bar?”

San didn’t think he should answer that. He didn’t feel comfortable exposing anything about his teammates. They were like family to him, and it felt plain wrong to give out info to someone like Wooyoung. He hesitated, then picked up the glass of champagne from the table and took a swig. 

Wooyoung raised his eyebrows a little. “I thought that was a pretty easy one.”

“What’s the agreement you have with the owner?” 

Wooyoung paused. He smiled, then picked up his glass and drank. “Well, part of it involves me staying quiet. How is it you guys came to suspect the Ruby?”

“Anonymous tip. Nothing super solid. Are there other hybrids working with you?”

“Mm, don’t think I should say,” Wooyoung answered, then pulled his shirt over his head, tossing it aside. He sat back into the couch as he pondered his next question. “Hmm, any crazy kinks?”

San laughed, a little taken aback. “What kind of interrogation is this?” 

“I didn’t say it had to be an interrogation. You can ask me anything you want.” 

San thought for a minute. His mind involuntarily flashed back to the time that Wooyoung drank from his neck, but there was no part of him that felt like saying that aloud. He yanked his tie loose and dropped it on the floor, maintaining eye contact as he did so. 

Wooyoung raised his eyebrows, eyes following the tie as it fell to the floor, then back up to San. Surprisingly, he stayed silent, not pressing the matter any further. 

“Who do you usually drink from?” San inquired, while his mind was still on the subject. He had a bit of a morbid fascination with hybrids, admittedly, as their whole existence was a bit of a mystery. Or, at the very least, a strange fascination with Wooyoung.

“I have a donor.” Wooyoung said simply.

“Really?” San asked, a little surprised that Wooyoung would have such a humane answer. “A human?”

“Well, yeah, as opposed to...?”

“I don’t know. I just can’t imagine a human being willing to do that.”

“And this is coming from you?” 

Shit, he had a point. He was sitting in a hotel room drinking champagne with a hybrid, so it shouldn’t come as a shock to him that someone would be willing to donate blood for one. And, well, there was that time that he’d technically asked Wooyoung to drink from him. But he’d been high on sol at the time. Whatever.

“I... ok, fair point. Your turn,” San dismissed. 

Wooyoung looked at him for a moment with an unreadable expression. He had such a good poker face that it irritated San down to his bones. But for some reason, Wooyoung didn’t read as a threat to him. Not that he couldn’t kill San, because he definitely could if he wanted to, but he felt oddly safe in his presence. Maybe it was the weird unofficial truce thing they had going on, or maybe it was because Wooyoung could blackmail him if he wanted to in case San tried anything. Whatever it was, it was strange, and San felt like a dumbass for ever going through with this. 

“Why’d you come up here?” Wooyoung almost looked puzzled, like he was thinking about a problem he couldn’t solve. Almost, but not quite. 

“Funny, I was just wondering that myself.” 

Wooyoung cracked a small smile. “You don’t strike me as someone who’s desperate for sex. You’re way too handsome. Yet, you came up here anyway, into your enemy’s playing field. You trusted that I wouldn’t ambush you even though we’ve barely met and aren’t on considerably great terms.” 

“That thought did cross my mind.” San admitted, running his thumb on the smooth curve of his glass, feeling the need to fidget with something. 

“Right, and you still came. I guess I’m just confused by you. You’re a special agent, but not by choice. You have a criminal record for violence, and you have a knack for getting yourself into trouble.”

“So.... what’s your point?” What was this, a damn psychiatry evaluation? What’s next, questions about how his father never loved him? 

“You’re kind of a loose cannon, that’s all," Wooyoung concluded.

“Am I in trouble or something?”

Wooyoung laughed, his fangs peeking out as his lips curved up into a smile. “You wanna know what I think? You’re an adrenaline junkie. And you have a boner for disobeying authority.”

“I have a...what?”

“You know. You hate being told what to do.”

“Doesn’t everyone?”

“Mm, you’d be surprised I guess.” Wooyoung shrugged, taking a casual swig of his drink. “Ok, so in your own words, why did you come here?”

San pondered for a second. “I guess... because it beats being bored?” And, you know. Horny.

“You risked walking into an ambush because you were bored?” 

“I guess you could put it that way.” 

Wooyoung shook his head. “You are so fucking weird. Ok, your turn.” 

Their game went on like that for a little while, each party alternating between drinking and taking clothes off, only occasionally answering the question. San was feeling significantly tipsy at this point, after what was probably his fourth glass of champagne. He had lost his shoes, socks, shirt, and belt, and was down to just his pants.

The questions had evolved from things relating to their professions to more sexual ones. San, in his drunken state, was finding it harder and harder to focus on the questions when Wooyoung was sitting across from him barely clothed. Wooyoung had been asking more invasive questions knowing San would cave and take something off. Fortunately, two could play at that game. He’d just finished asking Wooyoung if he’d ever jacked off to him, which of course he’d chosen not to answer. 

“Okay, okay, I have a good one,” Wooyoung snickered, tossing his pants on the floor. “You ever the one on the receiving end?” 

“Yeah, it just depends,” San slurred a little. His tolerance for alcohol wasn’t what it used to be since he had quit drinking. “How about you? You ever...?” He gave a vague gesture with his hand that was supposed to indicate something sexual.

“Not as often, but sometimes. Just depends.” 

San laughed a little. “I can’t picture it.” 

“What? What’s that supposed to mean?” Wooyoung asked, looking offended. 

“I don’t know. You’re just... I don’t know.” 

“I’m just what?” Wooyoung asked, standing up to come hover over San. He placed an arm on the couch behind San’s head, caging him in while he waited for his answer. San was having a hard time holding in his laughter. For being enemies and all, he was having a pretty decent time. 

“I guess you just don’t seem like the type.” 

“I swear to god you were just about to call me a twink. I hate to break it to you, but have you looked in a mirror lately?” Wooyoung huffed, clearly offended but still maintaining an air of playfulness. He knelt down on the couch with one knee, leaning in toward San with a devilish grin, fangs looking sharp and dangerous from that close. 

“I kinda wanna make you eat those words,” he purred against the shell of San’s ear. 

“Oh yeah?” San breathed, shuddering as Wooyoung ran a hand up his thigh and gave a light squeeze. 

“Don’t forget who’s stronger, you know. You only take control because I let you,” Wooyoung murmured, like it was almost a threat, and brought his hands up to grip San’s waist. His hands were surprisingly large against San's thin waist, and easily held San in place against the couch. The sudden power imbalance made his head spin, and sent heat rushing to his crotch. 

San was a pretty strong guy, with broad shoulders and defined arms and nearly two decades of martial arts training, but something about the way Wooyoung tossed all that out the window in a single moment made arousal crash into him like a tidal wave. A sane person probably would feel something more akin to fear in that situation, but maybe he really did have a few screws loose. Maybe it’s the danger and the possibility that Wooyoung could literally kill him if he wanted to that made his dick stand at attention. But he wasn’t really in the mood for all that psychology shit.

“Are you doing this out of spite?” San teased, eyes glued to Wooyoung’s lips as he hovered over him. 

“Most things I do are,” Wooyoung grinned, smirking a little as he sealed their lips together. Wooyoung licked into his mouth, and San could taste the champagne on his tongue. He felt dizzy with pent up desire from the whole evening, and, well, alcohol too. He definitely couldn’t hold his liquor as well as he could a year ago. 

Wooyoung slid a knee in between San’s, pressing it against his crotch. “Fuck,” he cursed. 

“Mm, god I wanna make you scream,” Wooyoung breathed against San’s mouth, catching his bottom lip in between his teeth. “But first...” Wooyoung pulled back, standing up from the couch and dropping his boxers, allowing his dick to spring free. “Be a good cop, and choke on my cock, will you?” Wooyoung said, voice dripping with faux sweetness.

San scoffed, but he was too horny to really be offended. He slid off the couch, dropping to his knees in front of Wooyoung, and took his cock with his good hand. He sealed his lips around the tip, flicking it with his tongue, and squeezed his hand around the base. Wooyoung groaned in the back of his throat, and San started inching down onto his cock, letting it sink farther into his mouth until his lips touched his fist. 

“Oh, yeah,” Wooyoung breathed, rolling his head back, threading a hand into San’s hair. “Fuck, you look so pretty like this, on your knees for me. I wish I could record it.” 

San pulled off with a pop. “So you can blackmail me?” He looked up at Wooyoung, pumping his length in his hand. 

Wooyoung laughed. “For memories. I never want to forget the day I got a Special Ops member to give me head.”

San laughed, rolling his eyes. “I’m glad I could create such a special memory for you,” he said before taking his cock back into his mouth. 

He hollowed his cheeks and sucked, jerking him off as he did so, and the hand in his hair tightened in response. Wooyoung pushed his head forward, forcing his cock deeper. San gagged a little, eyes watering as the tip hit the back of his throat. He bobbed his head, the hand in his hair roughly controlling his pace. 

“Fuck, get up,” Wooyoung growled, forcing San to stand by dragging him up by his hair. He gave him a messy, aggressive kiss before hoisting him up and carrying him to the bed, roughly tossing him against the sheets. San fell down on his back, and Wooyoung was already yanking his pants off. It was pretty convenient that they were already missing most of their clothes thanks to the drinking game. 

Wooyoung climbed on top of him, resuming their sloppy kiss as pinned San’s wrists above his head. San gave them an experimental yank, finding that they really wouldn’t budge. Shit, he really was strong. Not that he didn’t know that already, but in this context it felt very different. This way, it was like he was truly being forced to submit, rather than just playing a submissive role for fun. Which was really fucking hot, if San was being honest with himself. 

“Mm, look at you all helpless. Scared?” Wooyoung teased, pulling back to drink in the sight of San squirming beneath him. He ground his hips down into San’s, whose head fell back into the bed with a moan. 

“You wish,” he panted. Wooyoung was definitely getting a rise out of fucking a cop, and it pissed him off a little. “Are you gonna fuck me or what?” he snapped, the alcohol having loosened his tongue a fair amount. 

“Watch it. With that attitude, I’ll have to make you beg for it,” Wooyoung said, his gaze dark, fangs peeking out as his lips curled into a deadly smirk. San kind of regretted having said that. Wooyoung let go of his wrists, positioning himself so that he could slide a hand between San’s legs. 

“Mm, fuck,” San groaned as Wooyoung pumped his cock a few times in his fist, much too slow to give him the type of stimulation he really needed. 

“Stay,” Wooyoung said, standing up from the bed. What was he, a dog? He returned a moment later with a bottle of lube from the nightstand, popping the cap and squeezing some onto his fingers. He settled in between San’s legs again, gently pushing them apart with his arms. He teased at San’s entrance, rubbing circles with his finger, drinking in the sight of his body with hooded eyes. 

He pushed a finger in, slowly, and San had to bite his lip to silence the groan that rose from his throat. He moved it in and out at an excruciatingly slow pace, to torture him, apparently. Finally, he began to move and twist his finger with some purpose, and San was finding it increasingly hard to stay still, having to fight the urge to grind his hips down against Wooyoung’s hand. He didn’t want to give that smug bastard any more fuel. 

That plan didn’t go so well, though, when he added a second finger, effectively doubling the sensations that were happening. The groan he let out was clearly audible that time, and he had to bite back another when Wooyoung started to crook his fingers, dragging them along the interior of his body. He could feel sweat beading along his hairline as the room started to feel swelteringly hot. 

“You can start begging anytime now,” Wooyoung sang, and San really wanted to smack him. But the way Wooyoung’s fingers were twisting inside of him was turning his brain into mush, so he couldn’t even think of a good comeback. He adjusted the angle of his hand, pressing his fingers just right until—

“Fuck!” San cried, writhing against Wooyoung’s hand, suddenly unable to control his vocal cords. Wooyoung stared down at him hungrily, that stupid, cocky smile on his face getting wider. Wooyoung did that motion again, getting a feel for San’s body, as if recording in his mind exactly how to unravel him. 

“Fuck, oh my god,” he moaned as Wooyoung began pounding that spot with his fingers. “Ahh, god, fuck!”

With his other hand, Wooyoung grabbed San’s cock, giving it a squeeze at the base before pumping it in his fist.This nearly sent San over the edge, gasping and clutching at the sheets, but Wooyoung pulled his fingers out, clearly not letting him get off that easy. 

“What did I say? You’re not getting shit until I hear you beg.”

“Fuck you,” San panted breathlessly. “No, fuck me.”

Wooyoung squeezed a few more drops of lube onto his fingers before sliding them back into San. “Hm, denied.” 

“Ahhfuck, fuck you! You’re evil,” he groaned. 

“I seem to recall you giving me a very unfair interrogation, I’m just getting my revenge,” Wooyoung taunted, dragging his fingers over his new favorite spot inside San. 

“FUCK, Jesus Christ, fine, please just fuck me already,” San whined, writhing and bucking against Wooyoung’s hand as he pounded harder into him. 

“What was that?”

“Ugh, PLEASE fuck me, god, I am so gonna kill you,” San spat through gritted teeth. 

Wooyoung laughed, pleased with himself. “Good enough,” he shrugged, pulling his fingers out. “Turn around.”

 _Fucking finally,_ San thought as he rolled onto his stomach and pushed himself up onto all fours. Wooyoung lined himself up behind him, and San gasped a little as he felt cold lube being dripped onto his tailbone and sliding between his legs. Wooyoung brushed the head of his cock along San's ass, sighing softly in anticipation. San felt the tip of Wooyoung’s cock press into his entrance, and he fisted his hands in the sheets at the stretch. Wooyoung pushed in slowly, a blissful groan escaping his lips as he buried his cock to the hilt. 

“Goddamn, you’re tight,” Wooyoung gritted, and San could only moan in response. Wooyoung bottomed out inside him, his length sheathed to the hilt as San clenched around him. After a moment, Wooyoung slowly moved his hips back, giving a few shallow thrusts as San adjusted to him. San moaned as the sensation of being filled caused his brain to fizzle out, every coherent thought falling right out of his ears. San mumbled something into the sheets that was supposed to indicate that he needed more—needed Wooyoung to move before San lost his fucking mind. Apparently the message got across, as the shallow thrusting turned deeper and faster, and San could only helplessly grip the sheets as Wooyoung started fucking him with more intention. 

Wooyoung's hips canted forward in a harsh rhythm, lewd sounds of slapping skin filling the room as his thrusts grew harder. Wooyoung pushed against San's back, flattening him against the bed, his spine in a deep arch that changed the angle of Wooyoung's thrusts into something delicious. San's nails dug into the sheets as his cries grew louder and more pathetic, and Wooyoung ate them up with a smirk.

"Yeah, you like that, _agent?_ " Wooyoung sneered as he fucked San into a new area code, his hybrid strength doing wonders for his stamina. 

“Oh, _fuck—_ “ San panted, but he was cut off as Wooyoung snaked a hand around his throat and _squeezed._ He could feel Wooyoung’s chest against his back as he leaned over him, searing against San's skin. San choked around the hand crushing his throat, his dick leaking between his legs as grew closer to the edge. Embarrassingly, a string of drool fell from his lips as Wooyoung choked him, and he knew Wooyoung would have a field day over it. San could hear his heartbeat pounding in his ears, and his vision started getting a little grainy, and he had to claw at Wooyoung’s hand to pry it away from his throat. He let go, and San could breathe again, coughing and gasping for air the hybrid fucked into him relentlessly. 

San had no time to collect himself before he felt the ache of fangs piercing his shoulder, a string of profanities spitting from his mouth as Wooyoung sank his teeth into San's skin. Hot, fresh blood oozed from the wound, and Wooyoung trailed his tongue over it, lapping up every drop as it trickled down San's skin. San sobbed out something unintelligible as Wooyoung's thrusts grew harder, rhythm becoming irregular as he came undone. San could deny it all he wanted, but there was definitely something to be said about the way being bitten pushed him over the edge with such ease. 

"A-ah, Wooyoung—" San cried into the sheets, body tensing up as he came, clawing at the sheets as Wooyoung fucked him into a state of bliss. 

"God, you sound so good screaming my name," Wooyoung gritted as his thrusts became harder. 

It didn’t take much longer for Wooyoung to reach his limit, fingers leaving bruises along San's hip bones where he held them like his life depended on it. He pulled out, painting San’s ass with streaks of white as he came, groaning roughly through his teeth. San collapsed onto the bed, exhausted, panting like he'd just run a 10k. 

Wooyoung reached down and grabbed a random towel off the floor, using it to wipe the cum and lube off of San’s ass cheeks, which was oddly nice of him, San supposed. Wooyoung leaned down, running his tongue along the bite mark that he’d left, catching the droplets of blood as they continued to ooze out. San felt like a sweaty, disgusting mess, and Wooyoung squishing him against the bed to lick his shoulder wasn't helping.

“I can’t believe you bit me,” San mumbled into the blanket after he caught his breath. 

“When are you gonna admit that you like it,” Wooyoung teased, laughing against his skin. 

“Never.”

“Mhm. So, you crashing here tonight?”

“What, you’re not kicking me out?” San asked, lifting his head off the bed to look at Wooyoung in surprise.

“I think you think I’m more of an asshole than I actually am,” Wooyoung pouted incredulously. He gave the bite mark a quick kiss, as if to prove his point. “Sorry about the bite. Might bruise tomorrow, but at least your coworkers won’t see it.” 

“Mmf,” San grumbled, burying himself under the comforter as sleepiness overtook him. He didn’t really care if he got blood on the linens or not, given that it wouldn’t really be his fault in the first place. 

“I have some work to do later, so don’t be surprised if I’m not here when you wake up,” Wooyoung explained, sliding off the bed. Right, it was still technically the beginning of a workday for him. “Work” meaning whatever illegal shit he was up to that day. San tried not to think about it. 

“Work, uh-huh,” San grumbled from under the blanket. 

“Night,” Wooyoung called, flicking off the light in the bedroom and sliding the bathroom door closed. He heard the sound of the shower running, and he couldn’t help but laugh to himself, feeling oddly domestic as he shut his tired eyes. Crashing in a hybrid's hotel room after a booty call, no big deal. What a strange simulation he was living in.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for reading ilysm!!! comments are super super super appreciated!!!
> 
> and if you're interested i have a playlist for this fic that goes hard as fuck if you wanna check it out [here!](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/5eGeySTdOkbL7GnwxifYW7?si=Srtv7kQNSbyvS_ZwvoA6hg)


	5. but there's a caveat

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ok this chapter is LONG so I had to split it up into two parts. it gets real plot heavy so just bear with me and next chapter will have smut pinky promise

Visiting Wooyoung’s hotel room had become somewhat of a regular occurrence over the last few weeks. By day, San had been working with his team on the Hotel Ruby case, trying to gather enough evidence to bust it for large scale drug trading, but by night, he was fucking the hybrid who puppeteered whole thing. He felt disgusted with himself going to work and lying straight to his teammates’ faces—especially Yunho, who was practically family to him—but the exhilaration he felt in doing so kept him coming back for more. There was no doubt in his mind how much trouble he’d be in if anyone ever found out, but having a dark secret excited him in ways that he couldn’t explain. 

His phone buzzed. He had actually gotten a burner phone so that he could text Wooyoung without being traced, which spoke volumes about just how deep San was falling into his double life. A text from Wooyoung lit up his screen, just a few simple words. 

_situation. come talk in person_

Which was weird. Wooyoung would only ever text him asking him to come over, or if he wasn’t going to be at the hotel that night, but never anything else. They spent a lot of time together as a consequence of their frequent hookups, but he really didn’t know that much about him. They definitely weren’t friends; at best they had a mutual understanding about their killer sexual chemistry, but that was about it. He definitely didn’t know what Wooyoung would constitute as a “situation.” Especially one where San would have to get involved. 

He had just gotten out of the shower, and he set his phone back on the counter to finish towel drying his hair. He swiped a hand over the mirror, wiping away the fog to see his reflection. Without a shirt on, his skin was a mess of bruises and punctures that trailed down along his shoulders, his clavicle, even down his sides to his hip bones. His neck was clear, that was the rule. No bite marks where people would ask questions. He ran a finger along the freshest one on his clavicle, feeling its rough surface as it began to scab. There was something dirty about the idea of hiding the evidence in plain sight, just the thin layer of his shirt protecting his secret, and it made his stomach twist with excitement. 

San left for the hotel for the third time that week, though a little earlier than his usual time. Typically he’d get there around midnight or later, and all the late nights were really starting to catch up with him. Sometimes they’d go at it for hours, and he’d squeeze in just a couple hours of sleep before heading off to work, and San hoped no one noticed the dark circles forming underneath his eyes. 

He pulled into the Ruby’s garage around 10:30, slipping on a cap and a black face mask. He was in casual clothes, not dressed formally or in uniform like he would be for work, to help to conceal his identity if he were to run into anyone he knew. It wasn’t likely, but considering the place was under police investigation, he couldn’t be too careful. 

He took the elevator up to room 900, getting a little nervous about what the “situation” might entail. Worst case scenario would be the bureau finding out about his sexual escapades with the enemy, but no one had shown up at his door to interrogate him, so that probably wasn’t the case. He knocked, and the door swung open a few seconds later. 

“Hey,” Wooyoung greeted, stepping back to let San in. 

“Hey,” San replied, slipping off his shoes in the entryway. “You said there was a situation?”

“Hybrids are a pain in the ass,” Wooyoung sighed. 

San scoffed. “You’re telling me. Why, what happened?”

“I’m in kind of a mess. Sit down.” Wooyoung went over to the couch, plopping down onto it and grabbing his beer off the table. He ran a hand through his hair, sighing again. San sat down on the other sofa across from him.

“Alright, so the situation is that I had a partnership with this hybrid who really pissed me off, so I told him to fuck off and cut his supply. He thought it would be real cute to have his little goons rob some of my guys, and basically stole about a hundred grand’s worth of shit from one of our vans. Two hundred cases of Rambo, give or take. So, right now, I’m out a hundred grand, and I want my shit back, but most of all, I wanna rip that fucker’s head off.” Wooyoung leaned forward, one side of his mouth lifting up into a smile. “So, what would you say about running a little errand with me?”

“You want me to help you get it?” San asked, dumbfounded by his proposal. 

“Think about it. We have a common enemy. Catching hybrids is your job, right?” He took a sip of his beer. 

San laughed. He had a fair point. “Alright, I’m in.” 

Wooyoung’s eyebrows raised in surprise. “What, just like that? I thought I’d have to sweet talk you into it.”

“Caching hybrids is my job, right? And I haven’t had a decent mission in months thanks to my hand being fucked up,” San shrugged. 

He’d gotten his cast off weeks ago, and he’d finally been cleared to get back out onto the field after an excruciating period of nothing but desk work. Despite being cleared, the chief didn’t want him plunging right back into the fray just yet. His current mission at the Hotel Ruby was pretty slow going, since it was mostly a matter of watching and waiting for something concrete. Or, for San, pretending to be on the lookout for evidence and occasionally giving false leads. He hadn’t seen any real action since his almost fatal encounter with the hybrids in the parking garage, and that was over a month ago. 

“But there’s a caveat, though.”

“Which is?”

“You’ll have to take sol,” Wooyoung said bluntly. 

San cringed internally. There was no part of him that held any desire to take sol again. Hell, his hand had just healed from the last time he’d taken it, when he’d punched that vampire so hard it shattered his bones. And the hangover was brutal. Like the worst alcohol hangover he’d ever had multiplied by ten. “Yeah, I don’t know about that,” he groaned.

“I figured. But you won’t really have a choice if we’re diving right into a drug den possibly crawling with hybrids.”

“That’s basically what I do for a living anyway. Without having to be on sol,” San argued. 

“San, please, just trust me on this one. These aren’t the kinds of people you should take lightly. These guys are seriously bad news,” Wooyoung said sternly.

“This is coming from you?” 

“Exactly. R—that’s what he goes by—I’ve seen what he’s capable of. I just think we should even the playing field a bit.” Wooyoung took another swig of his beer. “I’ll even nurse you back to health after. The comedown is the worst. Trust me, I know. But it’s worth it.”

San sighed and crossed his arms, tipping his head back against the couch. Logically, he knew it would be dumb to turn down that type of advantage. He just sure as hell wasn’t looking forward to that part. “Fine, I’ll do it. But I was gonna ask—why me?” 

“Why did I invite you?” Wooyoung hummed in thought. “You’re one hell of a fighter, and on mercy you’re practically a monster. You took down three hungry vampires with minimal injury, and you’re the only cop who’s ever come close to detaining me. And you’re an adrenaline junkie, so I thought it would be fun.” 

“I’m not any kind of junkie,” San grumbled. “What if I had said no?” 

“There’s one other person joining us. He’s a hybrid too, so the two of us could handle it ourselves, but I figured I’d ask if you wanted to tag along. His name is Yeosang, by the way. We do a lot of business together. He’s also my best friend from before we were made into hybrids. Anyway, he’ll be here tomorrow and we’ll go over the plan. So you in?” 

San ran a hand through his hair. “Yeah, I’m in.”

He wasn’t expecting a gun against his head as soon as he walked into Wooyoung’s hotel room the next night. The cold metal pressed against his temple, forcing San to freeze in his tracks. 

“Yeosang, wait—“ Wooyoung leapt up, grabbing the other man by the wrist. 

“I’ve seen him before. He’s part of the Ops,” Yeosang spat coldly, trying to shake Wooyoung’s hand off of him. San turned his head a few degrees to get a good look at Yeosang’s face. Sure enough, he did recognize him—one of the hybrids who’d been there that night at the venue raid where he’d first seen Wooyoung. 

“I know that already!” Wooyoung snapped. He yanked the arm holding the gun away, shoving Yeosang backward. San kept his hands up, attempting to calm the situation by proving he was weaponless. 

“Then why the fuck is he here,” he practically shouted, eyes boring holes into San’s face in distrust. 

“He’s my—we’re—just don’t shoot him, ok?” Wooyoung was obviously racking his brain trying to come up with a description for their relationship. What was he supposed to say, that San was his fuck buddy/crime accomplice? Well, that might actually explain it pretty well. 

“I’m San,” San said dumbly. He felt the need to say something in his defense. The operation would be rocky if Yeosang didn’t trust him. “We, uhh… I guess you could say we have a truce.” 

“What the hell does that mean?” Yeosang demanded.

“San, take off your shirt,” Wooyoung instructed, irritated. 

“What?”

“Just do it.” Confused, San dropped his jacket and tossed his shirt over his head. 

Yeosang’s eyes jumped to the copious bites marking San’s skin. Some were obviously older than others, implying that whatever they had going on had been occurring for some time. Luckily, he seemed to relax at this a bit. “What the fuck, Wooyoung?” Yeosang said, turning to glare at his friend.

“He’s my donor. Kind of.” That wasn’t how San would describe it, but alright. 

“What about Val?” Yeosang asked. 

“She’s still here. Just wanted some variety, you know?” Wooyoung’s lips curled up into a smile like it was a joke. San knew by then that Val was his donor, the girl with long black hair who’d served him at the bar the first night at the Ruby. She also acted as a pair of eyes for Wooyoung.

“So you prefer the taste of government pig now?” Ouch. 

“Ha, apparently.” As he said it, Wooyoung met San’s eyes with a knowing smirk. Yeosang sighed, begrudgingly shoving his gun inside his jacket as he gave up fighting the situation. San put his shirt back on.

“Do I even want to know how this all came about?” Yeosang asked, leaning against the wall. He still shot San looks of disgust and apprehension, but at least he wasn’t trying to kill him. 

“Well,” Wooyoung started, crossing his arms as he thought. “He shot me, then some vampires were gonna kill us, so he let me drink his blood, then I gave him some mercy and we killed the vampires, then, uh…” he trailed off. 

“We fucked in a bus,” San chimed in. Wooyoung erupted with laughter, and San couldn’t bite back the smile that spread across his face. Yeosang’s mouth fell open, looking at Wooyoung like he was waiting for him to say it was a prank. 

“This is not what I meant by ‘fuck the police.’ I swear to god,” Yeosang groaned. Wooyoung wiped tears from the corners of his eyes once his laughter had finally subsided. “You could have at least mentioned the fact that he was a cop.” 

“I was getting to it,” Wooyoung shrugged. 

“Sorry for getting us off to a rough start,” San said diplomatically, extending a hand out to Yeosang, who gave him a disapproving once-over and ignored the gesture. He walked away to go sit on the couch. 

“Don’t mind him, he’s kind of a jerk.” Wooyoung dismissed, rolling his eyes and following Yeosang to the couch. 

“And you’re kind of a dumbass,” Yeosang retorted without hesitation. San could easily see how they were friends. Wooyoung sat down next to him, and San took the seat across. “Can we just get this shit figured out so that none of us dies? Well, not that I care about you.” Yeosang threw him a cold glance. 

Again, ouch. Not that San could really blame him, given that they were supposed to be sworn enemies. Still, San was basically throwing his honor as a special agent out the window to help with their ultra-illegal drug operation, couldn’t he at least be a little more civil? Not that he had much honor left to begin with. But still.

“Alright, you can cool it with the hostility,” Wooyoung scoffed, apparently thinking the same thing. “The fact that he’s an Ops means you know he’s trained in combat. Doped up on sol, he’ll be able to take on hybrids as well as we can. Hell, I’ve fought him myself and he nearly arrested me when he _wasn’t_ on sol.” 

“Isn’t that kind of my point?” Yeosang argued skeptically. 

“I won’t try anything,” San assured. “But I can understand why you’re hesitant to trust me.”

Yeosang scoffed, but seemed to drop it. “So what’s our plan? I’m gonna be honest, I’m glad we finally have an excuse to rip every limb off of R’s body. I’ve wanted to do that for fucking ages.” 

“Why do you guys have beef? Shouldn’t hybrids, I don’t know, stick together? You’re all kind of on the same side,” San asked. 

He felt like he was probably coming off as a little naive, but he knew next to nothing about the interpersonal relationships of hybrids, or their culture for that matter. The agents only knew what they had to, and as far as they were concerned, hybrids didn’t count as people. They had one foot in the realm of non-living, being half vampire and all. Which is also how they’re able to be executed without trial, on a fucked-up note.

Wooyoung shrugged. “By that logic, humans wouldn’t have wars. In a perfect world, hybrids would much rather stick together—well, actually, in a perfect world they wouldn’t exist at _all,_ but I digress—basically, a lot of us hate each other. Becoming a hybrid doesn’t make you into a shitty person, but shitty people who become hybrids usually get worse. Like R, who doesn’t give a damn about anyone else, and thinks he’s hot shit just because he’s strong. He crossed the line with me when he had his guys torch an army vet hospital.” 

“And bragged about it,” Yeosang added. 

“Not to mention he’s screwed over everyone and their grandmother at this point. Then he goes and steals a hundred grand’s worth of my shit and thinks he isn’t going to get his ass kicked,” Wooyoung huffed.

Wooyoung leaned over the coffee table, flipping open a notebook to a blank page. He sketched a quick box in the center, then a few arrows and squiggly lines. He devised a plan on how they would ambush the warehouse from three sides, utilizing the element of surprise to take out whoever was guarding the entryways. He mapped out the interior of the building, circling two potential places where R was most likely to be. 

They went over the plan several times, detailing who was in charge of which entrance and so forth. Wooyoung stood up, picking up a large suitcase on the ground and dropping it onto the coffee table with a loud bang. “We’ll need these, too,” he said, sliding the zipper open to reveal an incredibly illegal stash of firearms. “San, you’ll have to leave your gun here. You’d hate for any bullets you discharge to be traced back to you.”

“I know that,” San breathed, in awe of the suitcase’s contents. 

“Vest, too. New holes might look suspicious. I have one you can borrow,” he stated nonchalantly, as if talking about a sweater from his closet and not kevlar. “Oh, and this is for you,” he said as he tossed something to San. 

He caught it in his palm. It was a little vial full of sol, just like the one he’d been given before. He inverted it a few times, watching the clear liquid move around inside of the glass. He felt a little queasy looking at it, but did his best to suck it up and force those thoughts away. 

“Why doesn’t this stuff work on you guys?” he mused aloud. 

”I couldn’t tell you the exact science behind it, but it has something to do with a chemical receptor in the brain. Like how molly doesn’t work on people taking antidepressants, but a bit different,” Wooyoung said distractedly as he worked on loading a magazine. That was supposed to be common knowledge or something? San clearly hadn’t attended the same drug dealer academy that Wooyoung had. Yeosang shot Wooyoung a weird look across the table that he couldn’t decipher.

San stowed the vial in his jacket for later, leaning over the suitcase to select a few items that best suited his taste. He was practically buzzing with anticipation as he geared up for battle. His body ached for a good fight after being cooped up for so long. He remembered to shoot a quick text to Yunho saying that he had come down with something and wouldn’t be making it in tomorrow, which wasn’t _totally_ a lie.

_“Remember, in and out in under twenty minutes. That’s how long soldier works for, give or take. You don’t wanna be in there when it wears off.”_

San recalled Wooyoung’s words as he emptied the vial into his mouth, cringing as it coated his tongue like straight bleach. He coughed as it hit the back of his throat, feeling like it was melting his esophagus, and his heartbeat picked up instantaneously. Heat flashed throughout his body, erupting from within like his chest was an oven. 

He accidentally squeezed the empty vial within his fist, and it shattered, little shards of glass clattering to the pavement as he uncurled his hand. Well, at least that meant it was working. He brushed the excess glass off his palm, hoping that none of the shards would remain buried in his skin later. Already off to a bad start with not injuring himself. 

As much his body was telling him he needed to sprint straight at a fucking wall or something, he tried his hardest to take a few deep breaths as he slowly approached the entrance. He had twenty minutes maximum to get this thing done. He saw his first target and charged, knocking the hefty gun from his grasp and sliding a knife across his throat before he could make a sound. He didn’t know who was a hybrid and who wasn’t from afar, so he had to be thorough with each kill to err on the side of caution. The body thudded to the ground, gurgling out one final breath as blood soaked the pavement. 

The sight of blood made him giddy, which disturbed him a little bit, but violence was currently the only thing on his mind. He was fired up, body pulsing with energy, and ready to see some heads roll. He crept in through the side door, entering the warehouse with caution. It was dark as hell, and sol didn’t help much in the way of heightening one’s senses. A hybrid would most certainly have the advantage in the dark, so he had to stick close to the edges where moonlight bled through the broken windows. He skirted along the inner wall, keeping low. The drug was making him sweat like a pig, and he had to keep wiping his forehead to stop it from dripping into his eyes. 

A flash of movement ahead caught his eye, and before he could even register it in his mind, his feet were rushing toward it. He saw the figure turn and raise his gun, firing at San as he charged forward. The sound of the gunshot echoed against the bare walls of the warehouse, effectively announcing their arrival to everyone inside. The plan was to postpone using guns for as long as possible, but now that their cover was blown, he didn’t really give a shit. He ripped the pistol from the holster on his thigh. He fired at the target, all of his shots missing as the guy slipped out of the way, his boots skidding along the ground as he dodged. He was fast, San had to give him that much. 

He grew frustrated as none of his shots were landing, his blood boiling as straight lava seemed to pump through his veins, and in his angry haze decided to chuck his whole pistol at his opponent. It landed against his head with a hearty thunk, and he dropped to the ground in a daze. 

Well, that was…. fucking stupid. Apparently this drug gave him the critical thinking ability of a two-year-old in the midst of a temper tantrum, but the guy clearly hadn’t been expecting that, and it gave San time to finish him off, prying the gun from his hand and putting a bullet through his skull. 

He retrieved his own gun, whipping his head around to assess his next move. Sure enough, a few more bullets whizzed by his head, and he felt the wind leave his lungs as he was tackled to the ground by someone much larger. He felt his gun fly out of his hand, sliding uselessly across the floor.

“The fuck are you? Where’s that little pretty boy?” the man spat, saliva spattering from his lips. He cocked his fist back, landing a hard blow against San’s face. It connected painlessly, sending vibrations through his skull, and San felt a surge of bloodlust at the idea of paying him back tenfold. He wasn’t sure if this guy was a hybrid or a human on sol, but it didn’t matter. He was getting a bullet in his head regardless. 

San said nothing, not that he really could anyway. His brain couldn’t think in terms of words and sentences, only in the various ways in which he wanted to rip this dude apart. He shoved him off, sending the man flying into a wooden palette, quickly hopping to his feet before the guy had time to recover. It wasn’t long before he was upright again, aiming at San with an arm outstretched.

There was a close call as a round grazed his clothes, and San darted forward, quickly latching onto the enemy’s arm, squeezing his hands around it until he felt it snap. His opponent’s face twisted in pain, dropping the gun right into San’s hand. San shot him probably about five more times than he actually had to, but again, his reasoning skills weren’t at their best. He collapsed to the ground, San tossed the gun next to his body in favor of picking up his own. 

He heard gunshots echoing throughout the warehouse, firing off back to back somewhere across the building. His zone was clear, from what he could tell in the dim moonlight, and he pushed forward, toward one of R’s potential hideouts. There were two basement entrances, and it was a 50/50 shot for which wing he’d be in. It would be dumb to go in alone without one of the hybrids for backup, but his body was moving through the rusty doorway before his brain had time to stop him.

It was pitch black as he descended into the basement. San’s feet creaked over every step, and he almost worried about falling right through. It would really suck to twist an ankle in the bowels of enemy territory, even if he wouldn’t feel it until later. He pulled a small flashlight out of his belt and shined in at his feet. It might act as a beacon for enemies, but for hybrids who could see in the dark anyway, it didn’t make much difference. It was better than being totally blind. 

God, it was hot. The dusty basement offered little air circulation, and his clothes were drenched in sweat. His chest heaved congruently with his pounding heart, and his body craved some action. He felt like he needed to stab someone about thirty times to release this pressure that was building up inside of him. Like he would explode if he didn’t. 

San did his best to calm his drug-induced bloodthirst as he pressed on. His feet touched a solid surface as he reached the end of the staircase, and a long hallway opened up in front of him. The ceilings were low and the passage was littered with crates and palettes and rat-eaten electrical wiring. His sad little flashlight beam did the best it could, lighting up a small portion of the space just in front of him. It was better than nothing. 

He walked down that hallway for what seemed like ages. The straight shot ended up veering left, which branched off into two hallways, which San decided to go right on, which ended up being a dead end so he turned around, but he’s pretty sure he accidentally went back the way he came—basically, he didn’t know where the fuck he was. And he was getting angry. 

As he turned another corner, he saw a faint light bleeding out from under the crack of a doorway at the far end of the hall. He switched his flashlight off as he approached it, not wanting to give himself away too soon. Maybe that was a bad idea, because as soon as he did, he felt hands shoving him against the grimy wall, one pressed firmly against his mouth. He whipped his knife out and tried to blindly stab his opponent, but his hand wouldn’t budge. 

“You,” a voice said. He recognized it as Yeosang’s. “You’re gonna stay out here. Got it?”

San shoved Yeosang away, fighting the urge to retaliate at the person who’d just jumped him in the dark. Stay out here? Wasn’t the whole point of bringing him to increase their manpower? 

“I still don’t trust you, and this is between us and R. I don’t need Wooyoung’s little chewtoy getting in our way. Understood?” 

San’s brain may not have been fully functioning, but he was pretty sure that was extremely offensive. He made a sound that was in between a grunt and a growl to indicate he’d heard him, but also that he was not happy. He needed to make someone bleed before his head exploded, and at this rate it would be Yeosang. He glared into the darkness in the hybrid’s general vicinity. 

Yeosang’s footsteps grew quiet as he moved away toward the room with the light on. San crept after him, keeping a hand on the wall to guide him instead of using his flashlight. It was so silent that his own heartbeat was deafening in his ears, until the sudden sound of a door being kicked in exploded throughout the hallway. He expected to hear gunshots and yelling, but instead what followed was an eerie silence. 

San drew close enough to the door until he could hear a voice speaking. Wooyoung’s voice. Had he come in through the other side? 

“What the hell is this?” Wooyoung demanded quietly, and the tone of his voice was one San had never heard from him before, one of shock and despair. San froze, and a very bad feeling came over him. 

“Yeonjun! How—Why are you—“ Yeosang’s voice sounded equally as astonished. 

“Get out of here. Now,” an unfamiliar voice croaked. Yeonjun? 

“You found me,” another new voice sang cheerfully. “And look who _I_ found. Your little lab partner. One of your hound dogs told me all about him. What was his name? Changbin? Had to torture it out of him, though. Poor thing is disgustingly loyal. Or, _was_.” 

Was that R talking? 

“Motherfucker—“ Wooyoung snarled, and San could hear feet skidding across the concrete floor as if he’d tried to lunge forward but had been halted mid-way. 

“Wait,” Yeosang hissed. San really wished he could see what was happening. His instincts were screaming at him to stay away, but the sol in his system wanted him to jump in and fuck shit up. 

“You can have your sol back. I didn’t really want it anyway. I just needed something that would piss you off enough to come and find me. Well, that, and I needed to ask your bagman some questions. It was a real two-for-one.” There was the sound of a latch being fiddled with, and some kind of container—a case, maybe—being opened. “ _This_ is what I wanted.” 

San had no idea what was going on, and the suspense was starting to give him a headache. Wait, headache? 

Oh fuck. 

The fact that his body was able to feel pain again was a very bad sign. The sol shouldn’t have started wearing off yet—how long had he spent wandering around in those tunnels? Had it been nearly twenty minutes already? That didn’t seem possible. His energy began to wane, like it had all leaked out along with the sweat dripping off his body. His eyelids dropped as he was overcome with lethargy. Not good. Not fucking good. 

“Where the fuck did you get that?” Wooyoung’s voice was steeped in anger and confusion. 

“Where do you think? I’ll let you take a guess,” the voice San presumed to be R taunted. “You thought I wouldn’t figure out that you had a partner?”

“What do you want, R?” It was Yeosang’s voice that time. 

“I’m commandeering your business. Soldier that works on hybrids... I cannot _wait_ to get this out there.”

Sol… that works on hybrids? 

R’s voice sounded cold, menacing. “And I need you out of the picture.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> shit is getting real bro
> 
> and if you're interested i have a playlist for this fic that goes hard as fuck if you wanna check it out [here!](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/5eGeySTdOkbL7GnwxifYW7?si=Srtv7kQNSbyvS_ZwvoA6hg)


	6. what are you, a cop?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> spicy continuation from last chapter as promised! fair warning, this one gets a little gruesome in the first half oopsie

“And I need you out of the picture.”

San had no idea what was going on, but he was pretty sure they were fucked. His body felt heavy as the effects of the drug wore off, and he leaned against the wall to keep from passing out. His vision swam, the rays of light cast from the room twisting and morphing into ropes of dim yellow.

He heard thrashing and the sound of a metal chair scraping against the concrete, and a voice he inferred was Yeonjun shouted from inside the room.

“Wooyoung, he’s on V2!”

The room erupted in noise as bodies flew into motion, fighting and clashing with one another, grunting and cursing as the struggle ensued. The wall shook as someone crashed into it, forcefully enough that a human probably would have broken their spine. A chair flew through the door at mach speed, and San scrambled out of the way as wooden shards ricocheted off the adjacent wall. Someone cried out in pain after another particularly loud crash, San couldn’t tell who.

San’s head felt like it was full of tar, and it was becoming impossible to keep his eyes open, let alone think. He shook his head, fighting off the lethargy consuming him as he tried desperately to think of a plan. His knees trembled as they threatened to buckle underneath his weight, but he forced himself up, clawing at the wall to remain standing. He wretched at a sudden wave of nausea, clamping a hand over his mouth to keep from spewing all over his shoes.

Here’s what he knew—

One: Wooyoung and Yeosang were in danger. They had gone up against R, another hybrid, but he was fighting on equal ground with them despite being outnumbered. Or, at least, San really hoped it was equal ground. Two: this guy Yeonjun was being held hostage, possibly, and he wasn’t able to fight. Three: there was a version of sol that worked on hybrids—V2?—and R had taken it. And four: San would be totally fucked if he didn’t do something.

It psychically hurt San’s brain to think, but he didn’t have much choice. San remembered the sound of a latch earlier, as if R had been opening a case while he spoke. It was kind of a long shot, but if that case was full of sol—or V2, or whatever—then San could turn things around if he was able to run in and grab some. Problem was, his legs could barely hold him up, and he was in no condition to be jumping into a clusterfuck of angry hybrids. On top of that, his stomach was twisting itself into knots like it was collecting boyscout badges.

But then again, he was toast anyway if he _didn’t_ try. To hell with it.

He spat bile onto the floor and inhaled as much air as his lungs could take. Grinding the soles of his boots, he pushed off the concrete and flew into the room. He whipped his head around wildly, looking for something, _anything_ that could help him out. Yeosang was on the floor, coughing wetly as he pulled a knife from his chest, and he looked up at San in total shock. R had Wooyoung pinned against the back wall, thrashing and struggling in his grasp. Wooyoung’s eyes met his, and a stunned look spread across his face at San’s grand entrance.

A case—where was the damn _case_? San swayed on his feet, anchoring himself to the table in the center of the room to keep from falling. A black trunk on the floor caught his eye, and he immediately sank to his knees, shaking fingers fumbling with the latch. It opened, and rows of little vials lined the inside, nearly identical to the one he’d been given earlier, only the liquid inside was a pale orange color. Relief hit him like a train. He slipped one out, working on trying to pop the cap with his teeth instead of his useless trembling fingers.

R turned, and threw Wooyoung to the floor in favor of pursuing San. Wooyoung called his name in a panic as a body came hurtling toward him. San pried the cap off just in time, dumping the liquid onto his tongue at the very moment he felt hands grasping for his throat. His heart pumped fire through his veins, reanimating his body enough to jump back before R had time to wring his neck.

“Who the fuck are you?” R spat, lunging at San once more. San dodged, parrying his swipe as he reached for the knife at his thigh. He felt like someone had defibrillated him on the brink of death, and he didn’t want to waste a drop of energy. He was Frankenstein’s monster, a corpse brought back to life with a zillion volts of electricity. The nuclear generator feeling flooded back into his system, radiating heat from every cell in his body.

He retaliated at R, sinking his blade into the flesh of his hand as he tried to bat the knife away. R closed his fist around the knife, yanking it out of his hand, smiling wickedly as San lost his weapon. It clanged to the floor, and San barely dodged a kick that would have shattered all of his ribs. He may not have been able to feel pain, but a roided-out hybrid could deal enough damage to kill him in very few hits, if not just one.

Even on sol—or V2—he was having a hell of a time dodging R’s attacks. He was impossibly strong, and it was obvious why the other hybrids had such a hard time keeping him at bay. He felt like he was millimeters away from being dealt a death blow with each swing.

He was on the defensive, and R was able to grab him by his jacket and hurl him into the air, sending him crashing into the table. It collapsed beneath him, splintering apart on impact. Every molecule of air was forced from his lungs, and he gasped for breath as he peeled himself off the floor. As he dragged himself up, his finger nudged something smooth. A vial.

He picked it up, careful not to crush it between his fingers, and tossed it to Wooyoung. Wooyoung caught it with a look of realization, quickly prying the cap off and emptying its contents onto his tongue. He threw it aside and coiled into a stance, like a snake condensing its energy to strike. He sprang a good ten feet to intercept R, knocking him onto the ground.

They rolled around on the floor like two colliding stars, a ruthless display of fang and claw as they fought for the upper hand, and San used the opportunity to grab his knife from the floor. Splatters of blood flew dozens of feet across the room as they clawed and scratched at each other’s skin like angry lions.

San gripped the knife in his fist and dove into the fray. He plunged it down, feeling his blade pierce flesh, squelching as it twisted and ripped through ligament, sliding through muscle like it was a soft stick of butter.

R yelled in frustration, reeling on San to retaliate, but Wooyoung grabbed him by the skull. R tried to shake him off, but Wooyoung’s vice grip clenched tighter, his nails gouging holes into his face as he held him still, and San used that moment of stillness to stab his blade right into R’s neck, carving into him like a Thanksgiving turkey.

R’s scream gurgled from his throat, drenching Wooyoung in his blood as it spouted from the gash. San didn’t stop, carving and hacking at the flesh until he felt his blade slice through air, severing R’s head not-so-cleanly from his shoulders. It rolled off his body, hitting the floor with a wonderful _thump._ It rolled away, smearing long trail of red across the floor. It suddenly felt very quiet. He looked at Wooyoung, crimson drenched and heaving for breath, and a smile tugged at his cheeks.

R’s decapitated body continued leaking blood into Wooyoung’s lap, and he shoved it off, letting it limply fall aside without a second thought. Wooyoung looked at the head that was slowly rolling across the floor, then back to San, his lips curving up into a huge, fangy grin, laughing breathlessly.

“That—,” Wooyoung breathed, grabbing a fist full of San’s shirt and dragging him in for a rough kiss, “—was hot as fuck.”

San smiled against his mouth, tasting R’s blood on his tongue, which would have been totally disgusting if he wasn’t hopped up on adrenaline and V2. At that moment, it tasted like sweet, sweet victory. His hands clawed at Wooyoung’s shirt, warm and sopping wet with fresh blood. Some dripped down from Wooyoung’s hair onto San’s face.

“Hell no, uh-uh,” Yeosang squawked indignantly from across the room. “Can you save it for when I’m not bleeding out? I got stabbed in the chest, if anyone cares.”

“Ugh, fine,” Wooyoung sighed, begrudgingly pulling back. “Can Yeosang drink from you so that he’ll quit whining?”

San nodded, more than a little peeved that he had to stop making out with Wooyoung. That same fuck-or-kill feeling was starting to come over him like the last time he’d gotten high off the drug, and he didn’t even care about being in the presence of other people. But popping a boner in front of Wooyoung’s hybrid friends whom he’d just met probably wouldn’t be very polite, so he shoved it away for the time being.

He knelt down next to Yeosang and stuck his arm out, feeling a strange sense of deja vu as the hybrid’s fangs pierced his skin painlessly. Yeosang really had lost a lot of blood, as evident by the fact that San was kneeling in a pool of it, but he seemed decently ok aside from that. Hybrids were scary sometimes. Clearly.

Wooyoung found Yeonjun on the floor, his hands and feet bound by military-grade carbon fiber restraints. San recognized them immediately—they were what the agents used, their high tensile strength making them ideal for apprehending hybrids and people who’d taken even extreme doses of sol. Getting one to break was no easy task, and neither was obtaining one, and San wondered how the hell R had gotten his hands on a pair.

Wooyoung tugged at the restraint binding Yeonjun’s wrists, testing its strength. He leaned down, gripping it between his teeth, and yanked. It snapped like a rope of licorice, and Yeonjun’s hands fell free. San’s jaw dropped.

“Woah, this stuff really works,” he commented as he went to release Yeonjun’s feet next.

“Yeah, no shit,” Yeonjun said, stretching his arms over his head. “Why do you think we—“ Yeonjun made eye contact with San and shut his mouth. He looked back at Wooyoung, and the two exchanged an unreadable glance. “Also, wait, who is he?”

“That’s San, he’s my uh… donor. Who comes on runs with me. He’s quite portable.” Wooyoung shrugged. Yeonjun was visibly confused at the bizarre explanation. It was pretty obvious that San wasn’t your average human citizen, but he didn’t press the matter. San gave an awkward wave with the arm Yeosang wasn’t drinking from, which Yeonjun returned with a smile. He seemed nice.

Wooyoung snapped the remaining restraint with his teeth, easily tearing through the fibers like it was nothing, then looked over at San with a satisfied smirk. So much for not popping a boner. A huge part of him wanted to ask what the hell this V2 shit was, but it was impossible to form a sentence with correct syntax. He opted to sit and silently undress Wooyoung with his eyes, using every grain of willpower not to jump him right then and there.

Yeosang pulled back, wiping the back of his mouth. He checked his wound by brushing his fingers over it, and decided it was healed enough. He brushed himself off, then nodded Yeonjun in indicating it was time to go.

“Come on, let’s get out of here before it turns into a fuck fest.”

“Feel free to join,” Wooyoung called after him, crawling over to San like a hungry animal. Yeosang made a noise of disgust from the hallway. Yeonjun stood up to leave, pausing in the door frame for a moment.

“We need to talk later,” Yeonjun said, glancing over his shoulder at Wooyoung, who had already started working on getting San’s clothes off.

“Yeah, yeah,” he said dismissively, throwing San’s shirt off to the side and sinking his teeth into his shoulder. The sensation sent tingles across San’s skin, and Wooyoung moaned as fresh blood spilled into his mouth. San couldn’t take it anymore, he was going crazy with desire, and Wooyoung’s fangs in his skin effectively shoved him off of his precarious perch of sanity and into the realm of total primal lust.

Wooyoung was clearly feeling the effect of the drug too, as evident by the growl that escaped his throat once he dug his teeth into San’s flesh, leaving crescents in his skin with his fingernails. They were both breathing hard, grabbing and clawing at each other like the world was moments away from ending.

“Fuck. Need you in me. _Now_ ,” Wooyoung snarled in his ear. San had never seen him so riled up before. Not that he didn’t get into it when they fucked, but he wasn’t usually this feisty. _Ravenous,_ even.

He didn’t have to tell San twice.

San shoved Wooyoung back, forcing him to fall hard against the concrete floor, clumsily ripping Wooyoung’s sticky shirt off and chucking it aside. He climbed on top, grinding down with a frenzied desire, like his mind would unravel if he didn’t get his dick inside of something in two seconds or less. His hands couldn’t undo his belt fast enough, and his pants weren’t even all the way down before Wooyoung wrapped a red-stained palm around his shaft.

Just that alone was enough to make him moan like a teenage virgin whose dick had never been touched before. He bucked forward into Wooyoung’s hand, and the accidental jerking motion forced another choked moan from San’s throat. Wooyoung fumbled with his own belt, practically crushing the hardware between his fingers in his haste to remove it. He practically threw his pants across the room when he finally got them off.

San pushed Wooyoung’s legs apart, digging his nails into his thighs as he settled in between them. His knee dunked into a sticky pool of fluid, still warm as it leaked in rivers from the headless body a dozen feet away. An odd urge came over him, and he acted on it.

San maneuvered his arm around his back, feeling around on the floor until his fingers touched liquid. He let his hand swim in the puddle, swirling it around and coating it in a thick sheen of crimson, and a crooked smile bloomed across his face.

In the strangest, most fucked up epiphany he’d ever had, he decided to bring his hand between his legs, painting his cock with the blood of his enemy. He didn’t know why the fuck he’d done it, but it’s like his body was possessed by some kind of devil and he was just along for the ride. Wooyoung stared at him silently, watching the show, then stuck out his tongue.

San lifted his bloody hand, dripping red onto Wooyoung’s body as he moved it up to his face, smearing his wet fingers across his mouth. Wooyoung licked San’s fingers clean with a devilish grin, swiping his tongue over his palm to collect every drop. San’s mind went blank, not a single coherent word or thought occupying the space between his ears.

He shoved his dick in without warning, caveman style, not an ounce of self-control left in his body. Wooyoung chomped down on his hand, groaning loudly against it. His brain was a black hole of thought, as his dick had completely taken the reins. He pushed forward with his hips, falling against Wooyoung’s chest as he toppled forward, his cock buried to the hilt and slick with blood. The sensation consumed him, and his hips slammed forward like they had a mind of their own.

He immediately set a merciless pace, fucking hard as Wooyoung sobbed blissfully under him. He felt hands yanking and tugging at his hair, clawing marks down his sides, scratching at his shoulders hard enough to draw blood. Pain wasn’t in his dictionary, and the sensations only added to the ecstasy swelling and churning inside of him. He sank his teeth into Wooyoung’s shoulder with an animalistic snarl, his fingernails clawing against the concrete as his thrusts grew broken and uneven.

He came so hard it was like his soul had shot out through his dick, but he stayed hard, and after a brief moment of recovery his dick was demanding more. He was drenched in sweat, skin blazing as he thrust back in, like his body couldn’t get enough. His chest heaved as he moaned brokenly against Wooyoung’s shoulder, fucking him hard like he needed it to survive.

San distantly heard Wooyoung crying out with each thrust, but it was like his head had been dunked into a bucket of water. Everything sounded hazy and far off, like he was in a dream. There was a faint ringing in his ears that became excruciating as it grew louder, closer, piercing his skull like a hypodermic needle.

He felt too hot, like the room was shrinking in on him, magma leaking from the walls as they closed in. The ringing was unbearable, and he vaguely registered hands gripping his face as his eyelids shut of their own accord. His brain was melting, dripping out from his eyes and his ears and his nose, liquefying in his skull as that damn ringing grew louder, louder, _louder_.

“San?”

A far off voice from another dimension called to him. There were hands touching his face, he was somewhat sure of that, but it was like there was a plexiglass barrier between him and the outside world. His lungs felt like they were breathing sand instead of oxygen, and he choked on it, feeling the particles grinding against his trachea, tearing up his bronchial tubes as they eroded his chest from the inside.

“San!”

Someone was yelling at him, but he couldn’t be sure anymore. He felt like he was drowning, like the floor had become quicksand underneath him, and he sank into it, unable to move his body. His lungs heaved for air, desperate for oxygen he couldn’t get, and his heart pounded painfully in his chest, smashing against his ribs like a jackhammer. The quicksand swallowed him whole, and the blackness behind his eyelids melted into an even darker, suffocating black.

He woke up to the smell of weed. He cracked his eyes open, faint rays of light bleeding into his vision from across the room. His skull felt like it was full of cotton candy, and he felt oddly blissful aside from the fact that he was laying in a puddle of his own sweat.

“—he finds out?”

He caught the tail end of some words being spoken, but he wasn’t sure who the voice belonged to.

“The fewer people who know, the better.” Another voice. It sounded like Wooyoung’s.

“But he _already_ knows. Someone like him? What if he leaks it to the whole—“

“I know, alright? You think I meant for things to go this way? I’m just as pissed as you are,” Wooyoung cut him off.

“I’m just saying, it would be safer if we killed—“

“Yeonjun, I swear to god. We are _not_ killing anyone, ok?” Wooyoung interrupted.

“Don’t you think you’re getting a little too… I don’t know. Attached? Let’s err on the side of caution here.”

“Pfft. I just think it’d be fucked up, you know. It was my fault anyway, not his.”

“When did you become such a philanthropist? Ouch, don’t hit me!”

San blinked in confusion. Were they talking about him? He wasn’t really sure, he was too distracted by the calm, floaty feeling enveloping his body like he was riding a soft cloud. It was silent for a moment, followed by the sound of a heavy exhale, fresh dank smell filling the room.

“God, my fucking head. Why don’t I get any of the good painkillers?” Wooyoung groaned.

“Because you need to babysit your _’donor’_ since he’s oh so important,” the other voice cooed with sarcasm.

“You’re starting to sound like Yeosang. I can’t catch a break.”

“You could fuck anyone in the whole world and you choose to fuck a cop. An Ops, no less. Are you—oh, what’s the word… _insane_? Ow!”

“Ok, you can climb out of my ass now, thank you very much. First Yeosang, now you. I really wish he hadn’t told you,” Wooyoung grumbled.

“So what you’re saying is, you were never gonna tell me that he’s a—“

San coughed, bringing their conversation to a screeching halt. Wooyoung’s face came into view a few seconds later, hovering over the side of the bed with a joint between his fingers.

“Hey, you awake?” he asked softly. San gave a small groan in response.

“...Weed? In a hotel room?” San slurred, letting his head fall to the side to look at Wooyoung. His voice was thick in his throat, his words like molasses.

“What are you, a cop?” Wooyoung teased.

San gave a loopy laugh. “You’re gonna get in trouble.”

“I mean, it’s my hotel, I say it’s ok. Actually, no, I’m gonna stick a huge fine on your bill, Wooyoung.”

San’s head felt like a bowling ball stuck onto a toothpick, but he did his best to lift it up enough to see who was talking. He recognized him as Yeonjun from the warehouse basement, only he had glasses on, which stuck San as odd. He was leaning against the huge double-door frame, casually taking a hit off his joint. The cherry glowed a brilliant orange in the dark, and San stared at it in awe. The smoke made funny shapes in the air.

“Why me? You’re literally smoking a jay as we speak.”

“My hotel, my rules. Rule number one: Wooyoung gets fined for smoking weed.” Wooyoung gave a stoned-sounding laugh and stuck his tongue out at Yeonjun.

“Why d’you wear glasses if you’re a hybrid?”

“That was a surprisingly lucid question from someone on pain meds. I just feel naked without them. Wore them my whole life, you know?” Yeonjun shrugged, taking another hit.

“Pain meds?” San scrunched his eyebrows together. Or at least he thought he did, but he felt kind of numb everywhere so he couldn’t be sure.

“Yeah, I don’t think ibuprofen would have cut it after your double-dose of Rambo. You woke up screaming a little while ago, and I had to get Yeonjun to hold you down so I could stick you with some morphine.” Wooyoung took a drag off his joint and placed his other hand against San’s forehead.

“I did?”

“Yeah, you probably don’t remember. Man, you still have a hell of a fever. No human’s ever taken V2 before, so I’m glad it didn’t kill you.”

“...V2?”

“Wooyoung.” Yeonjun shot him a stern glance.

“What? He already knows what it is.”

San remembered the orange liquid in the vial, and how R and Wooyoung had been able to take some and feel its effects as well. Sol working on hybrids was something completely unheard of, and San had a bad feeling about it. Not that he was feeling much of anything at the moment.

“It… worked on you,” San slurred, not really sure what point he was trying to get across.

“Soldier 2.0—V2, yeah, it works on hybrids. Not as strongly as it does on humans, but enough. This stays between us, got it?”

“Wooyoung! Ok, no more questions. This information could get you killed, you know.” Yeonjun scoffed angrily, mumbling something under his breath that kinda sounded like _hell, I’ll do the honors._

“No more questions, ok?”

San had loads of questions. Well, he probably would later, at least. Not when his brain was full of cotton candy and marshmallows instead of grey matter.

"Also, San, listen—I'm really sorry for dragging you into this. I shouldn't have brought you along, it was stupid. That second dose could have killed you, you know."

San shook his head. "I havn had tha' much fun n' ages," he grinned, and Wooyoung rolled his eyes, fighting a tiny smile.

"Told you. Adrenaline junkie."

“...Are you ok?” San drawled, watching Wooyoung's face drop into a confused frown.

“What?”

“Are you… y’know. The drug.” He wasn’t quite sure what he was asking, all of his words sounded like they were pulled randomly from a hat.

“Me? My head hurts like a bitch, but I’m alive. You see now why mercy and opiate addiction go hand in hand? Shit hurts like hell the next day.”

San said something in response, but he wasn’t sure if it was even from a real language, judging by the way Wooyoung laughed at him.

“Wha… Why. What’s s’ funny?”

“You. You’re high as fuck. Go back to sleep.”

Wooyoung’s eyes scrunched into crescents as he laughed, glossy from the weed he’d smoked, and the light formed little stars in them like a tiny galaxy. He didn’t spend that much time idly staring at Wooyoung’s face, but maybe he should, because he suddenly felt like he was missing out. He had a little mole on his cheek that he’s not sure he noticed before.

“Pretty.”

“What?”

“You’re pretty,” San mumbled, giving him a doped up smile.

Wooyoung laughed, shrill and loud right in his ear. He took another hit once his laughter had died down, and San watched the smoke flow from his lips in little white ribbons.

“Thanks. Now go to sleep.” He got up and left for the living room, leaving San to wonder what the heck was so funny.

Yunho hunched down to get a look at San’s face. He hated when he did that, it made him feel tiny. His head still throbbed, he felt like a walking bruise, and he was just generally in a bad mood. He was trying to pour himself a cup of bad coffee before he had to sit down and scrub through surveillance footage for hours on end. Couldn’t he just get a real fucking mission already?

“Would you stop? We get it, you’re tall.”

“Yeesh, you’re bitchy today. What’s that?” He pointed to San’s face.

“What’s what?”

“ _That._ ” Yunho shoved his finger in San’s face, pointing at his cheekbone. Right, he’d taken a nasty hit to the face in the warehouse the other night.

“Oh, that. I kinda passed out in the kitchen and smacked my face on the counter on the way down.”

“You passed out? You should have called me, I would have taken care of you. I coulda brought you soup at least.”

“Campbell’s?”

“I mean yeah, but it’s better than nothing. You poor thing, I’ll make up a cool story for you. Smacking your face on the counter is pretty lame.”

Yeah, it did sound pretty lame. The real story behind it was much cooler, but unfortunately his lips were sealed. At least Yunho seemed to buy it.

“San! Buddy! You’re alive!” A voice boomed from the doorway.

“Barely,” San groaned, which was the most truthful thing he’d said so far. Mingi gave him a harsh slap on the back, and he winced.

“Look, Sannie smacked his face on the counter, what a loser,” Yunho immediately yelled.

“What? Seriously?” Mingi hunched over to get a good look at San’s face. Damn these taller than average people. Damn them to hell.

“I got in a super wicked fight. You should have been there,” San said, his voice muffled as he raised his mug to his lips.

“With your counter? I’ll kick its ass, let me at ‘em!”

Yunho pretended to beat the shit out of the coffee cart, and Mingi joined him, delivering fake kicks and punches until one of his kicks actually landed, loudly rattling the coffee pot. Someone from across the room yelled at them to shut the fuck up.

“Hey, seriously,” Yunho said, grabbing San by the shoulders and giving him a stern look. “You know you can always call me, right? Doesn’t matter when or where. Hakuna matata.”

San felt a tightness in his chest, his heart giving a little squeeze as guilt flooded over him. He did know that. He knew he could count on Yunho for literally anything. If only he knew the type of secrets San was keeping from him. He laughed, truly hoping it sounded genuine.

“I don’t think you know that that means.”

“It means family! Wait, that’s ohana. Ohana means family, San!”

Suddenly it felt like a rock had lodged its way into his throat. He was a piece of shit, truly.

“Ok, then what is hakuna matata?” Yunho asked seriously.

“It means no worries.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oof it got sad at the end
> 
> and if you're interested i have a playlist for this fic that goes hard as fuck if you wanna check it out [here!](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/5eGeySTdOkbL7GnwxifYW7?si=Srtv7kQNSbyvS_ZwvoA6hg)


	7. fishscale

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> heads up for a homophobic slur in this chapter. and excessive use of the word fuck lmao

“Fuck, San—” Wooyoung cried as San shoved his face into the bed, fucking him from behind at a breakneck pace. He fisted his hand into Wooyoung’s hair, tugging harshly as his thrusts grew stronger. 

“Fuck!” San spat through his teeth, sweat dripping down his forehead onto Wooyoung’s back. He gave Wooyoung’s ass a hard slap, then another, eating up his cries as he ruthlessly pounded into him. 

“H-harder,” Wooyoung sobbed into the pillow, scratching at the sheets with his nails. San obeyed, fucking him until the headboard slammed against the wall, and Wooyoung practically screamed as he came. San felt it as he tensed around his cock, sending him over the edge as well.

San gritted his teeth, digging his nails into Wooyoung’s ass as he thrust unevenly to his climax. A broken moan escaped his throat, giving a final push with his hips as he came. He pulled out, collapsing against the bed with a hearty sigh, his body heavy and sated. 

“You know, I think you’re a sex addict,” Wooyoung panted against the pillow after a few moments had passed, hair disheveled and back shimmering with beads of sweat. 

“Me? What makes you say that?” San quirked an eyebrow. 

“You’ve come here every day this week. You need help.”

“I thought you were helping me,” San laughed softly, his heavy eyelids drifting shut. “And it’s only Thursday.”

“Four days in a row? I’m gonna have to start charging you.” 

“You like having me around,” San teased, poking Wooyoung’s side to make him flinch. 

“Yeah, about as much as a hole in the head—hey!” San cut him off by lazily chucking a pillow at him, not making any effort to move from his comfortable position. 

“ _You’re_ the sex addict. You texted me to come over.” 

“Classic denial.”

San made a _pfft_ sound into his pillow, too exhausted to put up a fight. Wooyoung rolled over, stretching his arms into the air with a prolonged groan. He sighed heavily at the end of his stretch, scrubbing his hands over his face. 

“What’s your problem?” San asked without much enthusiasm. 

“I have a new client. He’s a douche. I have to go meet with him later.” 

“Why is he your client if you hate him?”

“Because I’m a good entrepreneur.”

“Hah—sure you are.” 

“I am, clearly. Putting up with dicks like him. I hate dealing with gang boss types, they’re always such narcissists. So pretentious.” 

“Must be pretty bad if it’s coming from you.”

“You think I’m a narcissist? Hardly, wait till you see this guy.”

“Sure, I’ll come meet him.”

“What?” 

“You know. Portable donor?” 

Wooyoung lifted his head up from the pillow to look at San, trying to gauge whether or not he was joking. “Seriously?”

“Yeah, why not?” 

“Um, because last time was a total disaster?”

“C’mon, it wasn’t that bad.”

“You’re an optimist, that’s for sure. Very admirable.”

“Your ass would have been toast if I hadn’t come along.” San resurfaced his face from the pillow to give Wooyoung a smug smile. 

“Yeah, yeah. I still can’t tell if you’re being serious.” 

“I am! Totally serious. It’ll be like bring your fuck buddy to work day.” 

“Is that what you want your title to be? What happened to portable donor?”

“I’m fine with either.”

Wooyoung laughed, tossing the blankets back to slide out of bed. “Fine, you can come. But I warned you, guy’s a total douche. And he’ll put a bullet in your head the second he suspects you’re a cop.”

“I’ve gone undercover before, you dick.”

“Just saying,” Wooyoung said, tossing his hands up. He stood pensively in front of the closet, pushing hangers aside every few moments. “Here,” he said, tossing something onto San, who was still glued to the bed. 

“For me?” 

“Yes, you. There’s a strict dress code.”

“For a drug deal?” 

“Like I said, gang bosses are pretentious as fuck. If you want entry, you gotta look the part. Didn’t you just say you’d gone undercover before? That should fit you. And…” he paused, thumbing through his collection. “This too.” 

He tossed something else onto the bed. San picked it up, holding it up against his chest. It was a silky lavender button up, and it was just flashy enough to scream _I embezzle money to pay for my yacht,_ but not _too_ flashy. You know, if shirts could talk.

“I have, loads of times. I just didn’t know we were going to such a fancy place. Damn, check out the price tag on this thing,” he whistled. The number seemed way too long for just a shirt, but what did he know. San had a few pricey suits in his arsenal of course, but this just seemed excessive. 

“Yeah, that one’s new.” 

“You’re nocturnal, when the hell do you have time to shop?”

“Why, you curious?” Wooyoung shot him a smug glance. 

He kind of was, actually. Which was the reason he wanted to tag along at all. He could lie to himself and say it was for cop related research purposes, but really he just had a strange fascination with the underground. It was magnetic, in its own way. Exciting, thrilling, alluring even. Not that he was willing to trade in his respectable job for one as a professional candyman, but tagging along on one deal couldn’t hurt. 

San had started feeling a sort of restlessness the past few weeks, ever since the warehouse fiasco. A little voice in the back of his mind, an itch just beneath his skin. Like he’d taken a hit of something good and craved another dose. Sure, their little excursion nearly got everyone killed after it went horribly awry, but he felt alive, and his body ached for more. 

He longed for that feeling of bliss as his knife ripped through every ligament in R’s neck, blood seeping through his fingers like a warm fountain. The way his heart pounded in his chest and sweat dripped from his hair as he fought tooth and nail for his life. Maybe Wooyoung was right, he did have an adrenaline problem. He didn’t used to be so trigger happy.

He swung his legs off the bed, slipping his arms into the shirt. The fabric was cold against his skin, and somehow just felt expensive. He did up the buttons, leaving a few undone at the top, and hopped up to slide on his underwear and the pants Wooyoung had tossed at him. They were a couple centimeters too short, but not too bad. 

Wooyoung tossed a black blazer over to him, and he shrugged it on, the fabric heavy and luxurious as it hugged his shoulders. It was probably a little looser on Wooyoung, but fit San surprisingly well. He felt like a mobster already. He tucked his shirt in as Wooyoung came over to inspect. 

“You look good,” Wooyoung said, checking him out with a slow, deliberate gaze. 

“I look like an advertisement for white-collar crime.”

“It suits you. Oh, I almost forgot—you’ll need an alias. People call me J. It can be whatever, just don’t use your real name.”

San thought for a minute. He’d taken on fake names in the past for undercover jobs, but they were always bland and unassuming. He needed something more creative. He searched his brain for something cool, then it came to him.

“Howl?” 

“ _Howl?_ Like, the moving castle?”

“It was my mom’s nickname for me when I was a kid. I used to run around howling like a wolf.” San gave a little _awoo_ as an example.

“Cute. Has a nice ring to it. She doesn’t still call you that, does she?”

“No—she, uh… no. She doesn’t.” San cleared his throat uncomfortably. “My parents died a long time ago.” 

“Ah.” Wooyoung looked at him, then looked away, like the subject was a beehive he didn’t want to poke at. “Sorry.” Another, longer pause. “Howl is cute. I like it.”

“A strip club?” San hissed as they approached the building. Heavy bass leaked out from the walls, vibrating up though his feet the closer they got. His borrowed shoes were slightly too tight, his toes crunched beneath the polished sheen of the black leather. 

“Not just any strip club. Club TS is notorious for being less of an actual strip club and more just a cesspool for mob types. It’s where they come to show off.” 

“I’ve never heard of it.” 

“Yeah, because they line the pockets of the whole damn precinct. They wouldn’t dare say a word.” 

“Ah, classic corruption.” 

“Like you’re one to talk.” Wooyoung elbowed him lightly, flashing him a smug grin. 

They approached the entrance, guarded by copious large men who looked like they were pulled straight from a Soviet war ship. They glared down at San, who tried his best to keep a neutral face despite being several heads shorter and painfully unarmed. Wooyoung had insisted he leave his gun behind to avoid suspicion should they decide to frisk him. 

“My plus-one,” Wooyoung said calmly, sliding a hand around San’s arm. He held a thick briefcase in his other hand, which the man’s eyes flickered to, then back to Wooyoung’s face. He stepped aside, granting them entry. 

“Yes, sir.” He gave a polite bow to Wooyoung, who tugged San along after him. 

San raised his eyebrows as they entered, leaning in to whisper into Wooyoung’s ear as music roared around them. “ _‘Sir?_ ’ Some cred you have, damn.” Wooyoung only shot him a smug glance in response. 

The place hadn’t looked all that assuming from the outside, all gray brick and blacked out windows, but the inside was a whole other world. The ceilings soared above him, bodies twirled and twisted and flew around poles at every table, shimmering sequins and tight PVC and sky-high heels dazzling in the pulsing red lights from above. The bass resonated up his legs and through his chest, the atmosphere consuming him like it was alive and hungry. 

Wooyoung led him down a dim hallway, veering off from the action of the main floor to an elevator. They took it three floors up, the music flooding in once again the moment its doors opened. The third floor overlooked the entire venue, like a box seat over a grand stage, and the breathtaking design of it all left San speechless.

They stepped out, making way for a luxurious overhang that commanded attention like the penultimate throne in a kingdom of debauchery and excess. A ring of crimson velvet upholstery circled a glossy, round stage, acting as both a table and a platform as the dancer contorted and spun on the pole in its center. Large bills fluttered through the air and decorated the stage in a whirlwind of currency. 

Men sat around the stage and watched as she twisted and twirled in front of them, completely nude save for the heels on her feet so tall they could be used as rulers. Someone raised a hand to wave them over, grinning widely around a flute of champagne. He had a fierce, intimidating glare that put San off immediately. 

Wooyoung nodded in greeting, and someone pulled back the rope barrier to let them inside the booth. They slid into the empty side of the seat, across the table from the man who’d waved. San sunk down into the plush, comfortable velvet next to Wooyoung, earning an apprehensive stare from the others. Something crunched as he sat, and he reached down to pull a few crisp bills out from under his ass and tossed them up onto the stage.

“You told me you worked alone, if I remember correctly.”

“I do. This is my donor, Howl. He won’t cause any trouble.” 

“Donor, huh? You bring him in case you get thirsty or somethin’?” 

“Something like that.”

The man laughed like it was a punchline. The booth was quieter than the main floor, far enough from the main speakers for them to hear each other. San could hear several of the others laugh too, as if following the leader like good little minions.

“Well, _Howl_ , I’m Bang. It’s my family name, and it’s what I do, see?” Bang made a gun gesture with his hand, pulling the imaginary trigger twice. 

“Pleasure to meet you,” San said politely. 

“Pleasure’s all mine. I’m real excited, J. This could mean big money for us. You know, crystal, blow, smack, it’s all old news. _This_ shit is where it’s at. They don’t have it where I’m from. People would eat it up, you know what I’m sayin’? They’d fucking _feast_ on it.” 

Bang grinned, snapping his fingers at a waitress, beckoning her forward. She placed glasses on the table, filling them from a gold-leafed bottle of Dom Perignon. Bang took his glass and tossed it back, slamming it back down in front of the waitress for another round. The glass filled again immediately.

“Bottles on me, alright? Let’s see what you’ve got.”

Wooyoung took a sip of his champagne and moved it aside, making room for the case on the table. He popped the latch, opening the case to reveal rows and rows of vials. He slipped one out, holding it between his fingers as he spoke. 

“Five mls, pure, undiluted Rambo. Lab-qual, not some backyard knockoff. Fifty hits a case, five grand per. Here,” Wooyoung said, tossing him the vial. San was almost impressed at this serious, professional version of Wooyoung. He clearly knew what he was doing. 

Bang caught it with a smile, shaking the liquid around between his fingers. “You ever try nukie, Howl?”

 _Nukie? Is that what he calls it?_ San shrugged, giving a little affirmative nod. “Yeah, it’s no joke.” Which was the truth. 

Bang grinned. “I can’t wait. Mind if I sample?”

“Go for it.” Wooyoung gave a wave of permission with his hand. 

Bang popped the cap off and stuck his pinky finger in the opening, tipping it upside down to coat the tip. He took it out, examining the droplet on his finger before sticking it in his mouth. 

“Whew!” His face scrunched up at the taste. “Shit’s powerful. No competitor. I’ll take the one case tonight, let everyone know what the deal is, then you hook me up with another seventy next week. Deal?”

“You got it.”

“Excellent! I look forward to working with you, my friend!” He raised his glass in a toast. “To a healthy partnership.”

“To a healthy partnership,” Wooyoung echoed, raising his glass. San did the same, holding it in the air for a moment before taking a swig. It sparkled against his tongue, crisp and cool and undoubtedly pricey. 

Wooyoung slid the case across the stage, sweeping up bills in its path as it reached Bang’s hands. Bang reciprocated by sliding another case to Wooyoung, who flipped the latch immediately to check its contents. Stacks upon stacks of cash lined the inside, and San tried his best not to let his eyeballs fall out of his head. Wooyoung closed it and set it at his feet. 

“Just as promised,” Bang said with a wink. He handed the case off to one of his guys and slipped a hand in his jacket, pulling out a small bag. “Here, as a little token of my gratitude.” He set it in front of him, then reached back into his blazer again. This time, he pulled out something flat and shiny. 

Everything clicked when Bang set the thing on the stage. It was a mirror, complete with a little solid gold straw. Bang opened the baggie and dumped a chunk of white onto it, picking it up between his fingers to marvel at it. He made a gesture to one of his guys, who pulled a card out of his wallet and handed it over. 

Bang used it to break a smaller piece off, then placed the main rock back into the baggie. His hand worked carefully over the mirror, cutting and chipping away at the rock until it formed little mounds of fine powder. He scraped the card a few times, gently forming one of the mounds into a neat little line. 

“You don’t have to go that far. We can leave if you want,” Wooyoung said against his ear, just loud enough for San to hear him. 

“It’s fine. It would look weird to leave now,” San whispered back. 

Wooyoung kissed along San’s jaw as he spoke, to make it look like they were flirting instead of discussing anything suspicious. “Seriously, you don’t need to—”

San silenced him with a quick kiss. Wooyoung turned back to watch Bang lean down and snort a line, his expression betraying nothing of their exchange. He had an excellent poker face. San was the one who wanted to come along anyway, so he shouldn’t need Wooyoung to babysit him. Bang tossed his head back when he was finished, laughing excitedly. “Whew! This shit—” he paused to inhale deeply, “—this shit is fucking unbelievable! It’s my treat, ok? Actually, even better—honey, c’mere for a sec.”

He crooked his finger at the dancer, who slid down the pole and hopped off the stage to approach him. She seemed to know the drill, because she immediately sat next to him and pushed her tits together. He gathered some of the coke onto the card and tipped it onto her chest, just above her cleavage. He whispered something into her ear, and she circled around the stage with a big smile. She got to San first and sat down next to him, leaning in with her boobs smashed together. 

She handed him the golden straw, and he took it. He could certainly put _snorting coke off a stripper’s tits_ on the list of things he was not expecting to do that night. He didn’t really even like tits that much, or coke for that matter, not that he’d ever done it, but nobody in their right mind would get up and walk away from a hit of the very finest shoved right in their face. Not anybody in this line of work, anyway. 

Well, bombs away. San leaned in, placing the straw in his nose as he inhaled deeply, feeling the particles fly up into his sinuses with a powerful kick. It was intense, but the burn was very faint, almost nonexistent, thanks to its pure, uncut quality. He pulled back, sniffling hard. Huh, not bad. He’d done worse things in his life, he supposed. 

To really sell it, he leaned back in and shoved his tongue in her cleavage, licking up her chest to collect the residual powder stuck to her skin. The dancer giggled and squirmed, and San caught a faint glimmer among the white that sparked his attention. He pulled back, giving the girl a smile of gratitude as she returned to Bang. His tongue felt numb. 

“Fishscale?” he asked, and Bang’s face lit up. 

“He’s good!” Bang exclaimed with an ecstatic smile. Wooyoung looked at him speechlessly, a smile of _holy shit_ all over his face. Kind of ironic how all of his drug knowledge came from being a cop. But hey, it seemed to be paying off nicely. 

“Let me try,” Wooyoung said, dragging San in to slide his tongue into his mouth. He pulled back a few moments later, smirking as he ran his tongue over his teeth, looking at San with an amused glimmer in his eyes. “No kidding. Pure as it gets.” 

The dancer readied her tits for another round meant for Wooyoung, but he declined in favor of using the mirror, which Bang slid over to him understandingly. He railed his hit, passing it over to San, who took another. The first hit was starting to drip down the back of his throat with an acrid, chemical tang, so he washed it down with a generous swig of his champagne. 

The night carried on that way for a while, the mirror circling the table, his champagne flute bottomless, beautiful women swinging and grinding on poles as far as the eye could see. It might have been all the blow and the Dom Perignon coursing through his veins, but San felt like a king. Fuck going undercover, he completely forgot he was even a cop to begin with. 

He felt kinda sweaty, his heart rate a little faster than normal and his tongue a little looser. He lost count of how many times the waitress filled his glass. Bang’s subordinates were laughing boisterously with him, hooting and hollering at the dancer as she spread her legs and gave them a good shake, clapping her ass cheeks together rhythmically to the music. Bills rained from the sky in flurries all around, a blizzard of wealth and status. One of the men gestured for her to come sit on his lap, which she obliged with enthusiasm. He snaked his arms around her waist, dragging his tongue along the curve of her neck, and San watched as her smile became tense with discomfort. 

She wiggled, giving a fake laugh as she tried to move away. The man’s arms tightened around her, holding her against his body, forcing her ass down onto his crotch. Her eyes widened with panic when she couldn’t move, and the man licked along her neck with more fervor. A wave of disgust washed over San as the other men laughed and cheered, a muscle in his jaw twitching as he clenched his teeth involuntarily. The man slid a hand around her waist, trailing down to her crotch, trying to force it between her tightly closed legs. He barked at her to open up, and she politely begged him to stop, her voice saturated with anxiety. He yanked her by the hair and she yelped, legs trembling as he shouted in her ear.

“I said open up!” 

“Hey!” San stared him down from across the stage with his fists clenched. A familiar feeling was simmering just beneath his skin, one he often felt back when he used to drink heavily. Alcohol gave him a disturbingly short fuse, and his fingers twitched as he tried to shove down the rage building in his chest. Logically, he knew that starting a fight in a gang boss's territory was a bad idea, but logic was out to lunch at the moment. Wooyoung shot him a warning glance, as if to say _you better shut your damn mouth._

“‘Hey?’ ‘Hey’ what, huh?” the man sneered. 

“Let go of her,” San said carefully, trying to contain his anger before things escalated too much. 

“She’s the one that sat on my lap, all naked and shit. Aren’t you, sweetheart?” 

She looked at San, silently pleading with her eyes. He stroked a hand along her thigh as he spoke, voice full of artificial sweetness. 

“We have a white knight on our hands,” Bang chimed in with a laugh, clapping in amusement. San took a breath to calm himself. “You the whore defense squad, Howl?”

“Yeah, you took your clothes off all by yourself, right, honey? You’re swimming around in my money, no? Don’t I deserve a little treat?” She winced as he tried to pry her legs open. “I said to open up, bitch!” he snapped, slapping her thigh hard. She cried out in pain, and San saw red. 

San stood up, feeling thoroughly wasted as he swayed on his feet. Wooyoung grabbed his sleeve, but San shook him off. “If you don’t get your fucking hands off of her—”

“You’ll _what,_ huh?” The man pushed her off, and she fell hard against the edge of the stage. San rounded the booth, and the guy intercepted him with a hard shove to the chest. “You gonna cry about it, fag?”

San’s knuckles were against the guy’s face before he could even feel his arm move. Joy and rage swirled around inside of him as he felt his nose crack against his fist, and the guy stumbled back, recovering quickly to swing at San. San vaguely registered the dancer scrambling out of the way and out of the booth, but his tunnel vision quickly honed in on his target. San drunkenly evaded his hook, squeezing in one more hard blow to the man’s cheekbone before a gun came into focus between his eyes. 

“The fuck you think you are, laying a hand on one of my guys?” It was Bang’s voice, and the look on his face said he was ready to pull the trigger. 

“Who the fuck are _you,_ letting this piece of shit—” San spat lividly at Bang, but he was suddenly yanked back by a hand in the back of his jacket. 

“Outside. _Now._ ” Wooyoung looked about ready to kill him, snarling at San through his fangs as he shoved him away from Bang. He dragged San by the shirt down to a staircase, stomping all the way down in a fuming silence. As soon as they were outside, Wooyoung reeled on him, shoving him hard in the chest. 

“Are you out of your _goddamn_ mind?”

San staggered back. Everything was spinning, and his heart was pounding with fury. The alley off to the side of the club was empty and cold, but his skin burned under his jacket, his shirt clinging to him with sweat from all the blow. He glared hazily at Wooyoung, who was waiting for an explanation. 

“What, you’re just gonna let that asshole do what he wants?” San spat, words beginning to slur. 

“Yes, actually! Are you just gonna try to take on half a dozen armed men on their own turf? Maybe more? Are you that fucking stupid?” Wooyoung practically screamed in his face. 

“I can’t just fucking sit there, Wooyoung!”

“I told you not to use my name—”

“Oh, you think I give a shit?” San laughed. “I don’t care _who_ the fuck it is, if I see some asshole putting his hands—”

“That’s great, but can you use your fucking head? Unless you wanna get killed, fine! Go nuts. I’m not gonna stop you.”

“You were just gonna sit there, then? You don’t give a shit about people, you only give a shit about your fucking case full of money!” San jabbed a finger into his chest, which Wooyoung batted away, irritated. 

“I have some semblance of self preservation, unlike—”

San cut him off with a harsh laugh. “Right. ‘Self.’ You’re right—I am a fucking idiot! For letting you poison my mind, week after week— You know what? You’re a fucking drug peddler. You ruin people’s lives for a fucking living! I should finish what I started and throw you in Confinement where you belong.”

“You’re such a saint, San! Look at you, all high and mighty! You want a dog treat? For being a good little government bitch?” Wooyoung praised sarcastically. 

“You’re no different. All of you—you hybrids, you’re like a plague. A fucking disease.”

“Funny, I feel the same about you arrogant bastards.”

San stumbled a bit, laughing drunkenly as he jabbed his finger at Wooyoung again. “You deserve the fucking electric chair. All of you.”

“You don’t mean that.” Wooyoung almost looked hurt underneath his anger, but San was too drunk to really tell. 

“You think I don’t? Hah, try me. I’ll drag your ass right to Confinement.” 

“Oh, really? Go for it. I’d like to see you try.”

“I can’t—” San scrubbed his hands over his face. “I can’t keep doing this. My team, they’re—they’re all I have. I can’t even look them in the eye. They trust me, they always have, when did I…” 

He laughed bitterly, leaning against the wall for support as his legs betrayed him, boneless and weak.

”I never used to lie to them. Ever. What kind of person betrays his own fucking family? You know, they’d never look at me the same again if they found out about you. I don’t want that, I just—I don’t.” 

Words just kept spewing out of him, and he had no idea what the hell he was even saying anymore.

“San—”

“No! Don’t—don’t touch me. Don’t.”

San stumbled out of the alley, feeling a hand tugging at his arm as he stormed off. 

“San, you’re wasted, where are you—”

“Get off me.”

“Wait—”

“I said get off.”

“Fine.” It sounded defeated, tired. 

Wooyoung let go and didn’t follow him. San staggered down the street, chest aching with emotion like it was a form of pneumonia, suffocating him from the inside. His mind swirled in a mess of anger, and his vision spun, like the street lamps were running laps around him. He grabbed onto one to stop it from spinning, but it took him along with it, like he’d been swept up into an invisible tornado. He sank to the ground, squeezing his eyes shut, but the spinning grew worse the more he tried to will it away. 

He thought about his teammates. His family. They were literally like family to him—his only family. Especially Yunho, who knew him better than anyone else in the entire world. He imagined Yunho, Mingi, and Jongho looking at him with disappointed eyes, like a criminal rather than a colleague. Instead of a friend. The thought made his stomach wretch. Maybe it was the alcohol, too. He felt cold, like the sweat covering his body had suddenly turned to ice, and he shivered, curled up on the curb against a street lamp like a drunk idiot. 

He fished around in his pocket for his phone, icy fingers scrolling through his contacts, hesitating over one name in particular. He didn’t really want to face him in the state he was in, but he pressed the call icon anyway. It rang a few times, and San almost hung up, but he didn’t. 

“Hello?”

“Yunho? S-sorry, but can you come get me?” he slurred. His throat was tight, like the words were stuck inside of him and wouldn’t come out. 

“Right now? Where are you?”

“I don’t know, ‘m kind of… stranded.” 

“Are you… are you drunk right now?” 

“Yeah.” 

Yunho paused. San could hear keys in the background, like he was already rushing out the door, and it nearly broke San’s heart in two. Of course Yunho would come running if San needed help. Of course. 

“Send me your location, ok? I’m on my way.” 

San shivered in the cold while he waited. It wasn’t long before the familiar body of a silver Toyota pulled up next to him, and Yunho immediately hopped out. 

“Hey! What—what happened? Is everything ok?” Yunho asked, crouching beside San on the curb. He reached an arm out, placing it on San’s back like he was some kind of scared, abused rescue dog. 

He broke down the second Yunho’s face came into frame, tears spilling down his cheeks onto the asphalt as he buried his face in his hands. Yunho wasn’t even mad that he was drunk, which only made San want to cry harder. He should have been mad, angry, disappointed—scolding San for breaking his agreement of sobriety with the bureau that by all means would get him kicked off the force—but no, he just wrapped an arm around San, pulling him close against his chest. 

“Yunho, I’m—I’m so sorry,” San sobbed incoherently.

“Hey, hey, hey, come here. It’s ok, just relax.” Yunho rubbed a hand against his back in large, soothing circles. “No need to be sorry.”

Yunho probably thought he was apologizing for getting wasted, which he was, sort of, but mostly for just being a total piece of shit. For withholding key information from their case just to get laid, giving false leads, secretly being a drug lord’s accomplice—to a hybrid, no less—things like that. Things Yunho would hate him for. 

He hadn’t cried in front of Yunho since they were teenagers, when he’d gotten the news that his parents had died at the hands of a terrorist bomber. Yunho had hugged him the same way, rubbing his back while he cried for hours, eventually passing out in his arms. Come to think of it, he hadn’t really cried in front of anyone since then. He had developed a sort of numbness that surrounded him at all times like a hazmat suit, which now had a massive tear leaking toxic waste all over him.

He wasn’t sure how long Yunho sat there on the curb with him, but it felt like hours. He cried until his stabbing guilt turned into a dull ache, Yunho’s hand on his back like a balm against a festering wound. It soothed the pain, but the damage was already done. The sun eventually started to peek up over the horizon, and San shut his eyes, only vaguely aware of Yunho carrying him to the car. San felt tiny in his arms.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> san rly said “in my house we respect women” thanks san
> 
> and if you're interested i have a playlist for this fic that goes hard as fuck if you wanna check it out [here!](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/5eGeySTdOkbL7GnwxifYW7?si=Srtv7kQNSbyvS_ZwvoA6hg)


	8. where's the party?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> guess who's back after only like two days lmao hey what's up

San’s foot flew through the door, kicking it nearly off its hinges with a heavy steel-toed boot. The wood cracked and splintered against the impact, and someone screamed in the foyer as he forced his way in, a terrified man dropping to his knees with his hands in the air as San raised his gun. San could see Yunho’s tall figure rush through the door in his peripheral. 

“On the floor! Hands behind your head!” San barked, and the man looked about ready to piss his pants. Other agents flooded in after him, the floor trembling underneath the weight of many pairs of boots. “Where’s the party?” 

“T-t-the—I don’t—Please, I—“

“You have five seconds. Five, four, three…” 

“Wait! They’re in the b-ballroom!”

Ballroom? How big was this fucking mansion? 

“Alright, lead the way. Try anything and I shoot, I’m not looking to play games.” San thumped his boot against the guy’s leg just hard enough to get him scrambling up off the floor and running down the hall like it was on fire. 

San ran down the hall after him, the vast hallway lined with paintings and swords and decorative china; the owner must have been some kind of Renaissance enthusiast. He may as well have just hung money on the walls, since he clearly wanted everyone to know he had cash. San thought it looked stupid as hell. The impeccably waxed floors were tragically scuffed as the horde of agents tore through the corridor behind San, clambering footsteps echoing like a stampede of buffalo. The man pointed a shaking finger down the hall at a set of tall double doors. 

“In there,” he wheezed. 

Screams of joy and ecstasy could be heard from the other side. Yunho came up next to him and did a little sideways nod, gesturing at the men behind him to follow. There were about a dozen other agents with them, none of whom San really knew all that well, but he was thrilled at the prospect of kicking some ass. It was therapeutic, in a way. He’d been taking every mission he could possibly get his hands on lately. He locked eyes with Yunho for a moment, and they rushed the double doors, sending them violently cracking open as they double teamed with a precise, expert kick. The impact vibrated up through San’s shin with a satisfying buzz. 

Oh, _hell_ no. 

San wanted to burn his eyes the moment the doors flew open. The ballroom was a sea of naked bodies writhing and wriggling like a pit of vipers as they all fucked like animals. Laughter and moans filled the air, as did the pungent stench of sweat and sex. The room was sweltering, like the thermometer was cranked at least ten degrees. The floor was a slippery mess of sweat and semen, which people rolled around in mirthfully, some even had their tongues in it, licking up the puddles with such enthusiasm one might think it was the cure for cancer. 

San nearly retched. Only the people closest to the door reacted. One guy paused mid-fuck to look up at San in shock, balls deep in a woman glazed in cum like a cinnamon roll. Another guy had his face buried in a woman’s crotch, eating her pussy so ravenously he didn’t even spare a glance when the doors flew open. The woman was practically convulsing against the floor as she screamed at the top of her lungs, for reasons other than that the place was now swarming with police. San shot a few rounds off into the ceiling, the sound of gunfire bringing the orgy to a screeching halt. 

The room erupted into total chaos a moment later, naked bodies running and flailing about as they tried to escape arrest. The shrill sound of glass shattering rang out beneath screams of terror as someone threw a chair through the window, bodies clambering over broken glass to escape, leaving behind bright smears of blood in their wake. Some even cut themselves so bad San wouldn’t be surprised if they bled out all over the ground outside. 

The whole room was a slip n slide of various body fluids, and San nearly ate shit as he ran through the swarm of bodies to stop them from leaking out the windows into the back garden. The party host was in there somewhere, and there was no way in hell San was gonna let him escape. Not after the mental anguish caused by this disgusting nightmare of a mission. No amount of alcohol or therapy would ever purge this imagery from his brain.

As he scanned the faces of the panicked crowd, he recognized a few celebrities in the mix. More than a few—the place was crawling with wealthy socialites, actors, actresses, musicians, directors, CEOs—all running around like psychotic nude lemmings. Pretty much everyone there was somebody, and San felt a little like he’d taken acid and barged into an Illuminati sex cult. 

He blocked the window with his body like a goalie, gun pointed at anyone who tried to pass. Agents swarmed the ballroom on the lookout for the man behind this monstrosity, but it was like trying to find one particular bee in a swarm. One guy shoved past San like a maniac, desperate to escape, slicing his leg open on the jagged window as he tumbled out. San got a good look at his face.

There—his target. The chairman of a cereal company who practically had a monopoly on the whole industry, who was notorious for hosting high-profile sex parties. That in itself wasn’t illegal, but the parties grew wilder as people began microdosing sol in combination with other drugs to form the perfect aphrodisiac cocktail. “Affy” as he coined it—a blend of sol, MDMA and GHB. 

San struck his gun against the remaining glass, breaking it away so he could safely climb though. The chairman bolted into the garden, leaving a trail of blood in his wake as it poured from the gash in his leg. It didn’t slow him down one bit, thanks to the sol in the affy that he undoubtedly took. 

“Freeze!” San yelled after him, but his pace grew faster. The garden was a massive labyrinth of roses, fountains, streams and koi ponds winding around endless stone footpaths and bridges. Moonlight rippled off the water’s surface in a dazzling shade of silver. The stones were washed in red as the chairman continued running, breaking the quiet silence of the garden with his panicked wheezing. 

San followed him over a foot bridge, his boots rattling the wood as he stomped over it. He aimed his gun, but a voice behind him made him freeze. 

“Look who it is,” the voice called, his intonation one of false enthusiasm. He recognized it, and immediately turned. 

A familiar head of honey brown hair and a dry, bored expression. 

“Yeosang?” 

“I can’t have you going around shooting my clients, San. Although, it looks like he may bleed out anyway. Pity.” 

As if on cue, the chairman collapsed onto the cobblestone a short distance away, too exhausted from blood loss to flee. San lowered his gun. 

“I didn’t take you for the orgy type,” San joked. Yeosang smiled a little, which was surprising. He wasn’t exactly San’s biggest fan. 

And San wasn’t Yeosang’s biggest fan, either. Yeosang has tried to shoot him in the head the first time they’d met, which was understandable, but he just had a nasty attitude in general. Not to mention he was Wooyoung’s best friend, and he and Wooyoung weren’t on particularly great terms at the moment. 

San hadn’t seen Wooyoung in weeks. He’d launched himself into his work, drowning out the strange emptiness he felt by begging his boss for extra missions and tagging along wherever he possibly could. He’d had a wake up call that night at the club, and he wanted to atone for his foolishness. He was a cop, first and foremost, and he needed his priorities straightened out. 

That was part of it, at least. He also just needed a distraction from his own mind. He had spent so much time at Wooyoung’s that he didn’t know how to fill the empty space in his calendar anymore. He wasn’t sure what to do with himself those nights when he was alone, and his mind would run in circles the longer he stayed awake. San thought about going out and finding someone to hook up with, but he was practically just setting himself up for disappointment. He was going through withdrawals, sexually, and he just needed to let off some steam. Hell, his boss probably just thought he was chasing a promotion.

“I’m not here as an attendee. The chairman happens to be one of my best customers. Can’t exactly say I’m surprised to see you here, though. Are you out for a walk with all your little bloodhound friends?” 

“Something like that. If you’ll excuse me, I have an arrest to make—“

“I don’t think so.”

Yeosang raised his arm, aiming a pistol at San. He disengaged the safety, his expression serious. San froze, locked in a staring contest with the hybrid as he stepped onto the bridge. San raised his hands with a puzzled frown. Was he really that protective of his clients? He didn’t seem to care much either way if the chairman bled out, but his stern, focused eyes were anything but playful.

“Look, I’m grateful to you for saving our asses back at the warehouse, but I’m just gonna be honest here—I don’t trust you. Wooyoung might, but I don’t. Sorry. You know about the existence of V2, and that can’t be taken lightly. Better safe than sorry.”

Yeosang didn’t seem to know about the fight with Wooyoung, but now was a terrible time to bring it up. He didn’t want to give him any more incentive to pull the trigger. Yeosang took a step closer, his footsteps tapping against the wooden planks. San’s feet stayed cemented in place as he tried to negotiate. 

“Listen, I have no intention of revealing it to anyone. My mouth stays shut, alright?” 

“Like I said, better safe than sorry. Wooyoung might be upset at me for killing off his chew toy, but he’ll come around eventually. This whole V2 thing—It’s no joke. We can’t afford to take any risks, that’s all there is to it. Nothing personal.” 

San quietly gauged the distance between them, calculating roughly how many paces stood between his skull and Yeosang’s pistol. His eyes never strayed from Yeosang’s face as he weighed his options, using his peripheral vision to map the space around him. Worst case scenario he died, but what’s new? That was always the worst case scenario. He didn’t necessarily want to kill Yeosang, but verbal reasoning didn’t seem to be in the cards. 

Yeosang took another step forward, and San lunged. The still air erupted into violent sound waves as Yeosang’s finger squeezed the trigger, casings dreideling along the wooden planks of the bridge as they spat out from the gun. San felt a searing pain as a round grazed his shoulder, clenching his teeth as he raised his own gun to retaliate, but Yeosang smacked it out of his hand. It fell into the koi pond with a pitiful plop, brightly speckled fish swimming away in a panic as it sank to the bottom. 

“I don’t wanna fight you, Yeosang,” San gritted as he struggled to keep Yeosang’s pistol shoved away from him. His shoulder stung, which hindered him quite a bit, and the hybrid was much stronger to begin with. His muscles trembled, tendons flexing shapes in his skin as every fiber of his strength went into holding Yeosang’s wrist. 

“That’s not really up to you, is it?” 

Yeosang ripped his arm from San’s grasp, using the butt of his gun to deliver a harsh blow to San’s cheek. It made his head spin for a second, and he staggered back dizzily. He collected himself quickly, focusing all of his energy into twisting his body, landing a sharp kick to Yeosang’s hand with enough precision to send the pistol pirouetting high into the air.

It plunked into the koi pond almost cartoonishly, drowning sadly along with San’s gun on the other side of the bridge. The water rippled slightly as it consumed the weapon with ease. Yeosang looked at San like he’d just blown out his birthday candles. 

“You’re a dick,” Yeosang pouted. 

“ _You’re_ a dick. Quit trying to kill me.” 

San yanked his knife from its sheath, readying himself in case Yeosang attacked again, which he did. He tackled San, sending him crashing through the rail of the foot bridge and into the pond. Fish swam for their lives as the two men cannonballed into their home, splashing around like maniacs as they pushed and shoved one another. 

The pond wasn’t that deep, it came up to his chest at its deepest point, but the rocks were slimy at the bottom, and San was having a hard time keeping his footing. Scummy water stung his nose as Yeosang shoved him under, and San thrashed around wildly as he gasped for breath, his blade landing several deep cuts against Yeosang’s skin. Yeosang cursed and flinched away as San’s knife nearly took his eye out, giving San a chance to gulp in a breath of air when he let go. 

Yeosang grabbed a handful of San’s hair and used his other hand to clamp around his wrist, rendering his knife useless as he shoved him underwater once again. Strong hands forced his head to stay below the surface, his feet scrambling uselessly against the rocks below. San kicked and trashed against the hybrid, and his breath bubbled out in angry clouds as he struggled. He might have been able to take him on if he was on sol, but sober he had virtually no chance of winning. 

San was running out of air quickly due to the exertion of thrashing around, and his lungs were aching against the pressure as they screamed for oxygen. Filthy pond water choked him as it slid down his throat, which made him cough, which depleted his air supply even faster. Yeosang held him underwater with ease, dunking his head below the surface, waiting for San to eventually run out of air. It was almost a humane way to kill him, all things considered.

His lungs were about ready to burst as he reached his limit. Just before hope was lost, his foot kicked against something hard on the pond floor, and he furiously waved his hand around in a desperate search. He bumped something solid. San curled his fingers around it, feeling the sweet, slimy steel of a gun in his palm. Just when he was about to fire, a gunshot rang out from somewhere above the surface of the water. It wasn’t his, he knew that much, but the hands holding him suddenly let go. 

San violently broke through the surface, coughing and spitting up murky water, beautiful, delicious oxygen finally filling his lungs. He opened his eyes. Yeosang had staggered back a few paces, clutching his chest with a look of shock and confusion. The pond was stained red in the moonlight, tendrils of blood oozing and swimming around like koi, painting an eerie picture before San’s eyes. 

“San!” 

It was Yunho, screaming his name as he stood at the edge of the pond, his gun aimed at Yeosang. Yunho jumped into the pond, splashing wildly as he ran toward them. Yeosang took a couple futile steps back, unable to retreat. He looked at San in a panic as Yunho drew closer. 

“Come on, help me grab him!” Yunho called. 

San was armed now. He had a gun in his hand, backup on the way, and an injured hybrid mere feet away from him. One who was unarmed, at that. One who had tried to kill him just moments before. It would be easy for San to grab him and hold him for a moment while Yunho put restraints on him. It would be easy. So easy. 

It didn’t feel easy. But why? Why didn’t it?

San didn’t particularly like Yeosang. He didn’t particularly like any hybrid for that matter, not since he and Wooyoung had fallen out. Yeosang didn’t like him either. He wanted to kill San to protect V2’s existence. He came really close to killing San, just moments before. He would have killed San and went off on his merry way, unbothered. Hybrids were like that. They were cold, ruthless monsters. San looked at the gun in his hands, cold and wet and slimy from the pond.

So, why? 

Why was he aiming his gun at Yunho instead of Yeosang? Wet steel glistened silver in the beams of moonlight, droplets sliding off its body and falling into the pond like gentle piano notes. It happened unconsciously, before he even felt his arm move. He hadn’t made the decision, really, but somehow his body had moved of its own volition. Something deep in the pit of his skull took control, a chain reaction of nerve impulses and muscle contractions until, somehow, Yunho’s face was in his line of fire. 

Yunho froze, the water going still around him. He looked at San, bewildered, as he pointed his gun at his own comrade. 

“Stop,” San said, softly, desperately. Yeosang looked equally as baffled, looking at San with wide eyes as he clutched his bleeding wound, streams of red running through his fingers into the water around his chest. “Don’t touch him.” 

Don’t touch him? What the hell was he saying? 

Yunho’s shock melted into confusion, which began twisting into anger. “What? San, he’s—“

“Let him go.” 

Yeosang stared at him like he was insane. Both of them did. San felt insane, somewhat. Hybrids were the bitter enemies of agents, like himself, and capturing one alive was like pulling the sword from the stone. It didn’t happen much, and you were practically a legend if you could pull it off. If San just took a couple steps forward, he could earn a promotion, respect and admiration from his peers just like that. Like snapping his fingers. 

It would be so damn easy. But for some reason, it wasn’t. He couldn’t. 

He remembered Wooyoung’s words from the night he’d saved San from the other hybrids. What do you think happens after we get arrested? Right, we get killed anyway. So, by that logic, you are the one making that call. It played again and again in his mind, rattling around in his brain, a torturous, endless cacophony. 

He and Yeosang weren’t friends. Hell, San and Wooyoung weren’t even friends. Not that they ever were. Whatever they had was over, just a fleeting mistake that San was trying hard to erase. But if he really wanted to erase it, then why stop Yunho? Yeosang gets arrested, so what? Confinement; that’s where hybrids belong. They were a mistake, a disease, not fit to be running amok. San had even said it himself: they all deserve the electric chair. Still, somehow, the idea of Yeosang being dragged to Confinement made him sick. Somehow, a part of him didn’t want that to happen. 

The idea of Wooyoung being dragged to Confinement made him sick. Being dragged to Confinement, tortured, executed. It made his skin crawl, his stomach churn, his heart clench. 

But why?

He shoved the thought away. What happened to Wooyoung shouldn’t matter at that point, let alone Wooyoung’s best friend. San had no reason to stop Yunho from doing his job, but there he was, pointing his gun at his own colleague. Like a crazy person. 

“Let him go, Yunho.” 

“What the hell, San? He’s a hybrid—he nearly drowned you! Are you out of your fucking mind?” 

A little, yeah. 

“Please, just… trust me. Let him go.” 

Yunho laughed in disbelief. Profanities escaped his lips like a foreign language. It was rare for Yunho to curse. He saved it for the times he was really mad, such as now. He shook his head, exasperated, holding his hands up in surrender. “Fine. I just—fine. I don’t know what the hell’s gotten into you.” 

San looked at Yeosang. His usual blank, stoic expression had morphed into a shocked sort of gratitude, and something else, maybe, but San couldn’t interpret it. He staggered back as Yunho disengaged, climbing out of the pond to escape, dripping blood and pond water onto the cobblestone path as he jogged away. The water fell still and silent again, but the silence felt deafening, roaring around him, Yunho’s angry gaze like a weighted harpoon aimed at his skull. 

“San,” Yunho said simply, a reserved sort of frustration leaking out from between his teeth. It sounded like a warning, like he was two seconds from snapping if San didn’t explain himself. 

San lowered his gun as Yeosang disappeared into the night. He felt Yunho’s gaze on him like it was a physical thing, a tangible, solid object. 

San didn’t even know what to say. What kind of reason could he possibly have to explain what he’d just done? He didn’t want to tell him the truth about rendezvousing with Wooyoung for all those weeks, as that would inevitably lead to a whole bible’s worth of questions. What was the truth, anyway? Why did he let Yeosang go? He didn’t even know the answer himself. The silence was crushing as he opened his mouth, then closed it, every thought swimming away from him, every possible excuse flying away in the wind. 

He dragged himself out of the pond, climbing up over the stones, breaking the painful silence with the sound of splashing water. He didn’t want to look at Yunho, like he was a child in trouble and he wasn’t old enough to know how to lie yet. He shook his head like a dog to rid the excess water from his hair, tossing Yeosang’s gun into a rosebush as he walked over to the chairman, who had since passed out from blood loss. San restrained the chairman’s wrists behind his back in an attempt to carry out some semblance of his duty as a cop. 

He heard angry splashing as Yunho climbed out after him, heavy boots stomping against cobblestone as he followed San. A large hand grabbed his shoulder, harshly spinning him around, forcing him to face Yunho. He avoided eye contact. 

“What the hell is the matter with you?”

“I—” 

He, what? What was he going to say?

“I don’t know what’s been going on with you, but you’ve been acting really fucking bizarre. I don’t—” He sighed, exasperated, confused, angry, frustrated. “Please, just talk to me. I don’t know what’s going on. Can you just—just talk to me?” Concern? Of course he would be concerned. 

San was scared to look Yunho in the eye, like he could somehow read his mind if he did. 

“It’s none of your concern,” he said, and it sounded colder than he intended. 

Yunho looked like he’d just been slapped. San shook his hand off of his shoulder, bending down to scoop up the limp chairman. Yunho watched him for a moment, stunned, then pushed San away to pick up the chairman himself. “You’re bleeding,” he said softly, and San looked down at his shoulder. 

He’d forgotten about the gash where a bullet had grazed him, and sure enough it was leaking blood all down his arm. He felt numb, emotionless, and the wound on his shoulder throbbed dully in a way that was almost comforting. He could focus on the physical pain instead of anything going on inside of his head. Yunho hoisted the chairman over his shoulder, and San followed him back out front. 

They didn’t exchange another word.

San dressed his wound the best he could with what he had in his bathroom cabinet. He dabbed at it with some cotton until it stopped bleeding, hissing at the sting as he smeared it with some ointment, slapped gauze on, taped it, and called it good. It probably could have used a few stitches, but there wasn’t any part of him that felt like going to the hospital to get patched up. He didn’t care if it scarred. 

The bite marks Wooyoung had left had all but faded away. Some of the more recent ones had turned into angry pink scars against his skin, the oldest ones having faded into faint echoes from another time. San treated it like a dream, something fleeting and ephemeral that didn’t and shouldn’t have any effect on his waking life. A lesson learned, or something like that. Still, as he ran his finger over the edges of a scar, he felt Wooyoung’s lips against his skin, as if he’d given it just moments before. Some tiny, insignificant part of him ached to feel him again, and San slammed the door on that thought as he pulled his shirt over his head, hiding the scars out of sight. 

A knock on the door startled him. 

San lingered against the door handle for a few moments too long. There was another knock, and San opened it, Yunho’s face peering down at him from the porch. 

“Can we talk?” It wasn’t really a question at all. San stepped aside to let him in. His apartment was dim, only lit by the blue screen of the tv, which he kept on to drown out the ambient noise of his own racing mind. “Sit down,” Yunho said, gesturing to the couch. 

Great, now he was staging an intervention. Just great. He closed the door behind him and followed him to the couch. Yunho used to show up at his door a lot out of the blue, mostly when they were teenagers, but as adults it didn’t happen as much. During high school, when they were practically joined at the hip, Yunho would show up at his door on a daily basis. He wouldn’t even knock, there was no point. He’d just come in and sit down, flip on the tv, and make himself comfortable with San’s xbox controller in his hands. San’s parents treated him like a second son, making an extra serving of food for dinner without even asking San if he was coming over. 

San’s room was Yunho’s room, San’s xbox was Yunho’s xbox, San’s weed stash was Yunho’s weed stash, the food in his fridge, the blankets on his bed, the bike in his garage, the notes in his binder, the change in his jar, the hoodies in his closet—that is, until he outgrew San like a stalk of bamboo—even the pain of losing his parents was Yunho’s pain to share. Losing them ripped a hole into Yunho’s heart just like it did for San, but grief brought them even closer in its wake, and Yunho decided to become a cop with him. Just like that. No question. 

Yunho’s dream had always been to be a dancer. For such a clumsy, goofy guy, he could dance like a fucking machine. He was the encyclopedia of dance; that was the inside joke with him and Mingi, who they’d met their senior year of high school. Play any song and he could dance to it— some way or another. He tried teaching San his ways on many occasions, but despite being flexible from taekwondo, San couldn’t seem to wrap his head around any of the moves. But one day, just like that, he didn’t want to be a dancer anymore. He wanted to be a cop with San, and together they would kick the asses of every terrorist they could get their hands on as payback for the bombing. 

After all, San’s parents were more like his own than his real ones. Yunho’s real parents didn’t care if he was gone for one day or seven days, too busy drinking and snorting and shooting their income away to even notice he hadn’t been home. Yunho hadn’t shed a single tear when his father finally hung himself, and he didn’t shed a single tear of sympathy for his mother who’d continued using until the electricity went out and the water shut off and the bankers came for the house. San’s parents had all but adopted him, and to lose them was worse than losing his own. 

Yunho still danced, of course. He danced to cheer San up when he cried, even though he wanted to cry just as much. San knew that. He danced when they got accepted into the same school, flailing around in a joyous storm of limbs that just wouldn’t stop growing. He danced with San after he’d finally come out in college, to prove that he’d always accept him, because Yunho didn’t care about things like that. He danced with San again after he’d made his very first arrest, and afterwards they drank themselves silly and made complete fools of themselves at the bar. 

So when Yunho showed up at his door and sat on the couch, he wasn’t all that surprised. It didn’t happen as often, and even though they had separate apartments as adults, he still treated it like his own. Not that San minded, but now he was in no position to look him in the eye, much less sit down and have a serious face-to-face with him. Yunho had been a pillar of neverending stability for San to cling to for years and years, but he felt lost lately, his sense of self skewed in another direction. After what had just happened at the mansion, he didn’t know how he would ever look Yunho in the face again. 

San felt like he was up to his chin in an icy pool of shame, creeping higher and higher like it wanted to drown him. He sat stiffly on the couch next to Yunho, who looked at him with more worry and concern than anything else. Yunho cleared his throat, then ran a hand through his hair with a gentle sigh through his nose. 

“What’s going on, man?” Yunho said softly, lacing his fingers together between his knees. He turned to look at San. His voice wasn’t accusatory, just calm and gentle, in his typical supportive Yunho fashion. Coming out to his best friend as gay was one thing, but coming out as a liar and a criminal was something else entirely. There are lines that shouldn’t be crossed, and San had gone and crossed a whole bunch of them. 

“I wish I could tell you,” San said honestly. Because that was the truth. 

“Why can’t you?”

“I just—can’t.”

“San, please. I don’t know what’s going on, but this isn’t like you.”

“I—Yunho, please. I just can’t.”

San felt hollow inside. He didn’t feel like crying, really, he just felt like his organs had been scooped out and replaced with foam packing peanuts. 

“You’re really scaring me, you know. You’ve been acting like somebody else lately, and I just—I don’t know, I’m—I’m scared, you know?” He sounded frustrated, tripping on his words more than usual. “I don’t like seeing you like this.”

“Are you angry?” San asked. 

“No, I’m not angry. But you pointed a gun at me today, and I just—I want to understand why, San.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Ok, it’s fine, but can you just tell me?”

“No, it’s not fine, Yunho. I pointed a gun at you. You should be angry.”

“Well, I’m not, ok? I’m just worried about you. Are you—” Yunho let out a breath like he’d just realized something important. “Are you… being blackmailed?”

San laughed involuntarily. It wasn’t supposed to be funny, and it was probably a logical conclusion to reach, but San couldn’t help but laugh. San scrubbed his hands over his face. Would Yunho get off his case if he said yes? 

“Well, are you?” Yunho prompted. 

“I’m fine. I just need you to trust me.”

“Fine? San, if you are, I can help you, I just—”

“It’s fine, I don’t need help, I—” San raised his voice without meaning to. 

“Look at me!” Yunho took San’s face between his hands, forcing him to make eye contact. Yunho’s face was so close to his, San was worried he’d be able to see every lie spelled out right onto his corneas. “Please, I hate seeing you like this! I just—”

Yunho stopped, cutting himself off. There was a heartbeat of silence, then he felt Yunho’s lips against his own. His whole world came to a screeching halt, like the earth had put on the breaks and stopped spinning. Yunho’s hands were against his face still, and he’s pretty sure his heart stopped beating for a few seconds. Yunho pulled back before San could even process it, the residual warmth on his lips the only thing assuring him it had actually happened. 

San was stunned, gaping at him like a fish as his mind tried to put the pieces together. Yunho had just kissed him? On the lips? With his? What? 

“Wh—” San started, too shocked to really say anything. 

“I hate seeing you like this. I hate it,” Yunho breathed, their faces inches apart. 

His best friend had just kissed him. His mind wasn’t equipped to handle such things. He felt like a car that had been filled up with coca cola instead of gasoline—confused as hell, and not able to function. How long had Yunho felt that way toward him? First of all, when did Yunho even start liking men? Or was it just San? He had so many questions. Instead of verbalizing any of them, he just pulled Yunho back in for another kiss. 

Why? He wasn’t quite sure. 

Maybe it was just easier than speaking. It was easier than asking questions, or answering them. Not that anything that night had been easy. He felt a strange sensation in the very core of his chest, like his heart was beating around a rock that had lodged its way in. He didn’t like it very much at all. He loved Yunho, that much was certain. He’d loved him for a long, long time, but not like this. But… couldn’t he at least try?

Yunho pressed his lips harder against San’s, more intense, desperate, passionate. It was sweet, loving, frustrated, angry, ecstatic, caring, worried, all at once. Like Yunho was trying to communicate every thought in his head without using a single word. San reciprocated with enthusiasm, pulling Yunho in close by his neck, like each kiss was an apology, and he was begging for forgiveness. He kissed Yunho hard, but he felt like a puzzle piece that wasn’t quite right, like maybe if he just jammed it into place it would almost, _almost_ fit. 

But there was still that little piece that just didn’t quite fit, no matter how hard he pushed. Even so, he climbed into Yunho’s lap, straddling him against the couch as his tongue found its way into his mouth. He moaned as Yunho’s hands squeezed his waist, pulling him closer, and San felt small in his grip. Yunho had always had huge hands, but they felt even bigger as they held him, like he could protect San from harm if he just squeezed him tight enough. 

San rolled his hips forward, eating up all the sounds from Yunho’s lips that he’d never heard before. Yunho kissed along his jaw, down his neck, sucking lightly down his throat, and San imagined Wooyoung when he closed his eyes, much to his despair. San opened his eyes to remind himself that it was Yunho, his best friend, his _best fucking friend_ who was kissing him, not the hybrid, but the image haunted him, permeated his mind like a curse. 

Yunho nipped along the curve of his neck, and the sensation of teeth against his skin only made it worse. He couldn’t get the image of Wooyoung out of his head. His lips, his fangs, his playful eyes as he looked up at San through his lashes, his smile as he teased him. San felt powerless against it. He wanted so badly to love Yunho the way Yunho loved him—not just as a friend, something _more_ —but he couldn’t, and it made him angry. Angry at Wooyoung for poisoning his mind. He wanted to erase the hybrid from his memory, like if he did, then maybe he could love Yunho the way he was supposed to. 

San could feel that Yunho was hard through his pants, a massive, bulging tent of cock underneath a layer of denim. San slipped his hand down, grabbing it with his hand, pressing his palm over it as Yunho groaned at his touch. He kneaded and massaged until Yunho was grinding his hips forward against his hand, his breath coming out as needy little puffs against San’s neck. 

San slid out of his lap, kneeling on the floor between Yunho’s thighs. He shut his brain off, barring out any thought that wasn’t centered around Yunho’s cock. For all the years he’d known Yunho, he’d never seen him naked, surprisingly, so seeing his dick slide free from his pants was a surreal experience. It was huge, like the rest of him, which wasn’t much of a surprise. He didn’t expect it to be quite _so_ huge, though, an intimidating tower of cock standing erect right in front of his nose. 

Yunho looked down at him with eyes hooded and full of want, lips parted as San curled his hand around the base, pumping it in his fist, getting a feel for its girth. Yunho groaned low in his throat as San moved his hand up and down, twisting along the shaft until it was fully hard against his palm. 

San wasn’t really in the mood to ease into things. He sealed his lips around the tip, giving it a hard suck that had Yunho tossing his head against the back of the couch. It was probably the biggest dick he’d ever sucked, but he was no quitter. He flicked his tongue against the head, lapping up the precum leaking out as he swiped it around in little circles. He kept his hand moving as he eased more of Yunho’s cock into his mouth, letting it sink deeper until it became hard to breath. 

San pressed his tongue against the underside of Yunho’s dick as he moved his head back and forth, squeezing with his hand as he bobbed his head. 

“Oh, fuck,” Yunho breathed, panting out a sigh as San picked up the pace. 

San hollowed his cheeks as he sucked harder, taking in as much as he could before it was physically painful. He let saliva drip from his mouth, using it to slide his hand up and down the shaft, jerking it to the motion of his head. San could feel Yunho’s hand in his hair, tugging at his scalp, encouraging San to take more with a firm push. 

San took Yunho’s cock into his mouth as far as it would go, gagging around it, and Yunho hissed at the sensation, groans becoming louder as San pushed him closer to the edge. San’s eyes watered at the effort of trying to fit so much cock in his mouth, but he pressed on, bobbing and jerking faster as Yunho fell apart under his touch. 

“Fuck, fuck—I’m close,” Yunho groaned through his teeth, and San took it as encouragement to move faster, looking up at Yunho through his lashes as he doubled his efforts, sucking hard on the tip each time his head came up. Yunho’s hand tightened in his hair as he came, spilling into San’s mouth with a stuttering breath, cursing as San eagerly swallowed around him. Yunho’s head fell back with a heavy sigh, and San wiped spit and cum from his lips as he knelt on the floor, not entirely sure what just happened. Did he just suck Yunho’s cock? Was this real?

Yunho pulled him up into a kiss, licking into San’s mouth with renewed fervor as he pushed him onto the couch, hands sliding under the hem of his shirt as he climbed on top. 

“Mm, what are you—” San started, breaking the kiss to look up at Yunho with wide eyes. He tried to lightly push Yunho away, not wanting to take things any further. Yunho didn’t seem to get the message. 

“Returning the favor,” Yunho said with a smirk, sinking down to San’s crotch.

“Yunho, wait—” 

He was hard, admittedly, but he didn’t want to risk Yunho seeing his—

“...What the hell?”

—Scars. 

Yunho had pushed San’s shirt up to kiss along his hip bones, but the moment he did, his face dropped into a frown. He thumbed over one of the marks along his skin, looking up at San in shock. San let his head fall back against the couch, pursing his lips into a tight line as he wracked his brain for something to say. 

“San, are these…” 

They were obviously bite marks. Anyone in their right mind could see they were fucking bite marks. He’d tried to stop Yunho sooner, but it was too late. Yunho’s eyes scanned over his skin, stunned at what he was seeing. His eyes slid up to meet San’s, sternly awaiting an explanation. San tried to wiggle out from under him, but Yunho’s hands clamped around his wrists, holding him against the couch. 

“Let go!” 

San thrashed against his hold, but Yunho held him down with the weight of his body. He yanked at San’s shirt collar, stretching it down to look at San’s shoulder. Sure enough, more bite marks. Yunho let the fabric snap into place with a frustrated sigh, staring down at San from just inches above, silently waiting for him to speak. 

“I said let me go,” San spat, giving up on trying to save the situation. 

“You better tell me what the hell is going on,” Yunho growled, his icy tone sending shivers down San’s spine. 

“I… I can’t.”

“San.” It was slow, a warning. 

“Please. I just—I can’t tell you. I wish I could. Yunho, please.” 

His wrists were suddenly freed. Yunho hopped up, pulling his pants back up. “Fine,” he scoffed, shaking his head as he did up his belt. Yunho snatched his keys off the table, metal shapes clanging together angrily as he threw the door open. 

“Yunho—”

The door slammed shut. San let his head fall back against the couch.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oof bro. where's wooyoung I feel empty inside writing a chapter without him
> 
> i have a playlist for this fic that goes hard as fuck if you wanna check it out [here!](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/5eGeySTdOkbL7GnwxifYW7?si=Srtv7kQNSbyvS_ZwvoA6hg)


	9. like a killswitch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> yo. guess who. i'm a writing machine rn srry for dumping chapters but here have another lmao

San didn’t know who he was anymore. His body had been moving on its own a lot lately, and in that vein he found himself standing in front of Wooyoung’s hotel room. He stood there for quite some time, staring a hole through the numbers on the door. Nine, zero, zero. 

There was a faint smear of blood on the carpet at his feet. A likely scenario was that Yeosang had come to Wooyoung’s hotel room after being shot. In which case, there were two hybrids in the room who San wasn’t on great terms with. One had tried to murder him just hours before, and the other probably wanted to murder him. But again, he didn’t mean to come. His legs had decided his fate on his behalf. He was stuck on auto pilot, and he desperately needed some kind of factory reset. 

San scuffed his foot over the smear on the carpet as he contemplated what the hell he was doing there at all. He didn’t have anything planned as far as what he wanted to say to Wooyoung. Did he even want to speak to Wooyoung? If so, why? He thought about turning around and leaving, but each time he took a step back, the door pulled him in again like the moon pulling the tide. Like him coming back to that door again was something as inevitable as a force of nature.

After his fight with Yunho, he didn’t know what else to do. Like a ship lost on an endless sea, black waves churning abysmally around him, sprays of bitter cold eddying all the way to the horizon. He was just floating without purpose, alone, sea sick. Wooyoung may have been the kraken trying to drag him under, but it beat total emptiness. He’d take the kraken over Yunho’s disappointed stare any day. 

Once again, his body moved on its own, giving him no say in the matter as he felt his knuckles tap against wood, just underneath the silver nine, zero, zero. He almost wanted to run, to sprint right back down the hallway like the roadrunner, but pulling a ding dong ditch on Wooyoung probably wouldn’t have been very mature. He ran a hand through his hair as he waited for a response in those agonizing few seconds that followed. 

The door handle clicked, opening slowly, almost painfully so. Wooyoung stood on the other side, looking up at San with an expression that confused him greatly. 

Wooyoung looked haggard in a way that San had never seen on him before. He was always pale as a consequence of never seeing the sun, but he didn’t usually look so… sickly. Pallid, deathly, drained of all color whatsoever. His eyes looked sunken and dark, and his eyelashes fluttered like keeping them open took a great deal of effort. 

But underneath his exhaustion, his eyes seemed to light up a little at San’s appearance. His lips parted as if to speak, hanging open when the words seemed to die on his tongue. San didn’t know what to make of it. He didn’t look angry, that he was pretty certain. Wooyoung should have been angry, considering San had made a fool of himself at the club and then told Wooyoung he deserved the electric chair, but he didn’t look angry. He almost looked… happy? No, not happy. 

_Grateful,_ he realized as Wooyoung snaked his arms around San’s neck, pulling him into a tight hug. 

Startled, San wrapped his arms around Wooyoung’s back, feeling the warmth of his skin through his shirt, feeling his heartbeat against his chest, the rise and fall of every soft breath. They embraced wordlessly for a few moments, and as Wooyoung was pulling back, San realized belatedly that it felt good. Too good, and the thought dismayed him a little. 

“Thank you,” Wooyoung said softly. “Really.” 

“What for?” San managed to get out, all but lost for words. 

“Letting Yeosang go. I know he’s an ass, like, really, he can be a massive dick, but he’s my best friend. If I lost him I—I don’t know what I’d do. Just—thank you.” 

There wasn’t a trace of sarcasm or condescension in his voice, which made it sound practically foreign to San’s ears. San’s hands were still around his waist, lingering there like it was as natural as breathing. He was surprised at having such a positive reception considering how poorly things had ended between them. Whatever _things_ had been. 

_You’re welcome_ didn’t really feel like the right response, so he just stood there silently, unsure what to say from there. Wooyoung seemed to understand, and he stepped away with a sheepish laugh. Wooyoung swayed on his feet a bit, catching himself dizzily before he could topple over. San instinctively reached out to grab him, steadying gently with his hands. 

“Hey, you ok?” San asked, more concerned than he wanted to be. He shouldn’t—didn’t—give a shit about Wooyoung’s condition—because he was a good cop with his priorities straight—but seeing Wooyoung look so fragile right in front of him was weird and he didn’t like it. 

“Yeah. I’m fine. Yeosang had to drink from me since Val isn’t here, so I’m a little light headed.” Wooyoung put a hand up to his forehead, eyes squeezing shut as he tried to regain his balance. 

He looked like he was about to pass out, not just ‘a little light headed.’ Not that San was worried, or anything. Not one bit.

“Hybrids can drink from other hybrids?” 

“Yeah, technically. We’re still half human. It just isn’t ideal. It takes a lot more and the effect isn’t as strong, but it’s better than nothing. Yeosang lost a ton of blood, so he practically drained me. That son of a bitch,” he laughed shakily.

Wooyoung shuffled over to the couch and sank down heavily, his skin paper white against the vibrant red brocade of the silk cushions. San could see patches of dried blood on the carpet leading further into the hotel room, stark smears of rust against beige. San tossed his shirt over his head as he followed, sitting down next to Wooyoung, who looked at him apprehensively. 

“Drink,” San said firmly. Wooyoung stared at him. 

“San—“

“Don’t argue. You look like hell.” 

“Aw, are you worried about me?” Wooyoung teased, but it wasn’t as punchy as usual. He looked too exhausted to function, let alone throw out snarky quips. “I thought you were mad at me.”

“I… am,” San said unconvincingly. 

“Why’d you come back, anyway?” 

“Will you just drink?” 

Wooyoung held his stare for a moment, then gave up, leaning into San’s shoulder. San grunted as fangs pierced his skin, followed by the gentle press of lips and tongue against the wound. Wooyoung sighed as blood filled his mouth, lapping it up in hurried, desperate licks. Some trickled down San’s chest, and he caught it with his finger before it could stain the couch. 

Wooyoung’s hands squeezed San’s arms as he drank, tightening as strength returned to his muscles, pulling him closer. San’s body reacted to the sensations in a tingling storm of firing neurons, and his dick started to harden in his pants. He’d been touch starved for weeks, minus what had just happened with Yunho—which almost felt like it shouldn’t count because of how poorly things had gone—so he was powerless to stop the moans of satisfaction that fell from his lips. 

Wooyoung licked the excess blood from San’s skin before pulling away, swiping his tongue over his lips as he raised his head. His face had more color to it, and his eyes shone with renewed vitality. San’s eyes involuntarily slid down, watching his tongue poke out from between his lips before he could stop himself. 

“Thanks,” Wooyoung breathed, metallic scent washing over San’s nose from their close proximity. He felt like an addict, the way his body craved Wooyoung like he was a schedule I drug. Illicit, forbidden, bad for him. Ruining his entire fucking life. But he kept going back, letting the kraken pull him to the bottom of the sea, drowning again and again. 

San stared at the drop of blood on the tip of his finger, and Wooyoung followed his eyes down, picking up his hand and lapping up the droplet with a flick of his tongue. Game over. That’s all it took to completely revert back into his nympho mindset, which Wooyoung was probably right about him having. Just like that, he relapsed.

He hated the way Wooyoung’s lips felt as he closed the distance between them. He hated the way they fit against his own, welcoming him back like he’d never left. He hated the taste of his own blood on Wooyoung’s tongue. He hated the way his tongue grazed Wooyoung’s fangs every now and then, not hard enough to cut, but hard enough to feel the sting. He hated the way he could feel Wooyoung’s lips curl up into a smile as they kissed, like he knew he had San in the palm of his hand. Because he did. And San hated it. 

He hated the way he fisted his hands into Wooyoung’s hair, like he couldn’t pull him close enough. He hated the way his dick ached as Wooyoung slid his palm over the front of his jeans, and squeezed until San gasped into his mouth. He hated the way his hips kicked forward in response, chasing the friction as Wooyoung pulled his hand away. He hated the way his eyes took in every inch of Wooyoung’s skin as he peeled his shirt off, smooth and perfect and warm to the touch. 

He hated the way Wooyoung leaned back in, kissing him more sweetly than he ever had before, as if to thank San for saving his best friend. He hated the way Wooyoung straddled him on the couch, grinding their hips together with the urgency of needing to breathe. He hated the way Wooyoung sucked every moan from his mouth, every curse on his tongue as San gave in to desire. 

He hated it. So, so much. 

But San pressed him against the couch anyway, climbing on top like Yunho had done to him, and pushed his shirt up to kiss along his stomach. If kissing Yunho was like trying to jam two discrepant puzzle pieces together, kissing Wooyoung was like a perfect game of Tetris. Fun, satisfying, addictive. It took so little for Wooyoung to crush his restraint, shuffling his priorities around like a deck of cards—and the deck was stacked against him. 

He hated it. 

Wooyoung writhed under San as he kissed and sucked along every dip and rise of his abdomen, gasping as San scraped his teeth along his hip bone, nipping lightly as his hands worked on getting Wooyoung’s jeans undone. He tossed them to the side, fisting his hand around Wooyoung’s cock as he leaned back down to kiss him, pumping it steadily, licking along the hybrid’s jaw as he tipped his head back with a moan.

“Yeosang’s asleep, he’ll be pissed if he wakes up to us fucking,” Wooyoung said with a breathy laugh. 

“You’re not very good at staying quiet,” San teased, a smirk pulling at his lips. “I guess I’m just that good.”

“Hah, you wish.” Wooyoung gave him a lusty glare, lips curling into a sinful smile as he pushed San off, climbing into his lap against the couch. “You’re one cocky son of a bitch, you know that?” 

“Mm, you love my cock. Don’t lie.” 

Wooyoung laughed as he tugged San’s pants off, sliding them down his legs and dropping them on the floor. Sex with Wooyoung was always playful, never pressured with expectations or rules. San had grown to miss their easy conversation in the weeks they’d been apart, not that he’d ever admit such a thing aloud. Part of him lamented the fact that it was a little too easy, too natural. 

Wooyoung wrapped his lips around San’s cock, giving the tip a quick suck before pulling off with a fangy grin. San frowned as he pulled back, his dick aching to be touched after weeks of celibacy. “What makes you think you deserve a blowjob, huh? After that little stunt you pulled at the club?”

Wooyoung’s smile said he just wanted to give San a hard time. That evil, evil smile. Sexy, but evil. San groaned as the hand around his cock gave a few slow, torturous pumps. “Because I make your life more interesting?” he pouted. 

Wooyoung snorted, a genuine peal of laughter rising up from his chest. “You know, you’re not wrong,” he said with a conceding nod. His hand twisted along San’s shaft with more purpose, and San had to bite his lip to silence a groan. 

Wooyoung sealed his lips around San’s cock again, pressing his tongue against it, drawing throaty moans out of San with each bob of his head. Silver rings gleamed against his fingers as they moved up and down his cock, drawing his gaze to the way they jerked and twisted in Wooyoung’s slow, seductive rhythm, impish gazed fixed to San’s face through dark lashes. 

“God, fuck,” San hissed as Wooyoung gave the tip a playful flick with his tongue. He bobbed a few more times, then pulled back with a wet pop, squeezing San’s thigh as he got up and tiptoed into the bedroom, returning a moment later with a bottle in hand. 

Wooyoung reclaimed his set on San’s lap, squirting a generous amount of lube into his fingers and slicking up San’s cock. San stared down hungrily as Wooyoung lined himself up into position, wiggling his hips until the angle was just right for him to slowly sink down onto San’s cock. Wooyoung bit back a groan, letting his head fall against San’s shoulder as he sat down all the way, San’s cock fully sheathed. 

“Fuck,” Wooyoung whispered against San’s neck, his hands scratching lightly along his throat as he rocked his hips forward. San’s head fell back against the couch, roughly squeezing Wooyoung’s ass as a deep, throaty groan escaped his teeth. Wooyoung’s breath washed over San’s neck in hot, stuttering puffs as he rocked forward again, building a slow rhythm. 

San bucked his hips up, cock slamming into Wooyoung hard enough to make him slap a hand over his mouth, muffling a startled moan against his palm. San smirked in amusement at his attempt to stay quiet, and gave another hard thrust. Wooyoung gave another muffled _mmf_ into his hand, opening his eyes to glare at San. 

“Oops, were you trying to stay quiet?” San teased, unable to resist. 

“Asshole,” Wooyoung scoffed. He leaned back, grinding his ass down onto San’s cock, riding hard with his hands braced against San’s thighs. San had to bite his lip to keep from spewing profanities, as Wooyoung was apparently on a mission to make him cry out the loudest. 

San dragged him forward, biting and sucking along his collarbone as he fucked into him, setting a rough pace that had Wooyoung falling against him, hands gripping the back of the couch on either side of San’s head. 

“Fuck, San—“ Wooyoung hissed through his teeth, struggling to keep his cries of pleasure contained as San fucked him harder, panting heavily and sweat running down his neck. Wooyoung’s nails dug into the back of the couch so hard San was worried the wood might splinter apart. “Hah—fuck I’m—“ 

San gave his ass a hard spank, and Wooyoung yelped into his hand, nearly crying out loud. San pounded into him, the nasty wet sounds filling the room so loud that there was no way Yeosang could be peacefully sleeping through it. San laughed internally at the idea of inflicting mental scars as payback for nearly drowning him. 

He brought a hand down to Wooyoung’s cock, stroking it as he fucked him over the edge, Wooyoung’s nails digging into his scalp and scratching at his skin as he came not so quietly all over San’s chest. San followed soon after, hands roughly grabbing Wooyoung’s ass as he gave a few broken, final thrusts into him, hips stuttering as his climax hit full force. 

Wooyoung collapsed against him, squishing him into the couch as they both caught their breath. Through the sound of their heavy panting, a small “seriously?” could be heard from inside the bedroom. They burst into laughter, cackling breathlessly as Yeosang cussed them out from afar. 

Wooyoung peeled himself off of San eventually, wiping sweat off his forehead with the back of his hand. His eyes flickered down to San’s neck with a curious glance. 

“Nice hickey, by the way. Am I the side piece now? I’m offended, San,” he pouted, not really sounding all that offended. 

“Ugh,” San groaned, feeling the spot on his neck with his hand. “It’s been a rough night.” 

“Ooh, by rough you mean—“

“No, not like that.” San ran a hand through his hair. “It’s complicated.”

“You’re arm’s bleeding, first of all. What is that?”

San looked down. Sure enough, his haphazardly placed bandage was turning red as blood soaked through it. God dammit. 

“That dickhead shot me.” He prodded at the bandage with his finger, hissing as it stung. 

“This dickhead?” Wooyoung jammed his thumb toward the bedroom where Yeosang was. 

“My bad,” Yeosang called from the other room. 

San scoffed. He wondered if hybrids kept first aid kits around. He was about to ask, but a knock on the door stopped him short. 

“Shit, where are my pants?” Wooyoung looked around, hopping out of San’s lap to grab his jeans from the floor. He quickly shimmied them on, and San did the same as Wooyoung went to get the door. 

“Yeonjun? What’s up?” San heard him say as the door clicked open. 

“Hey, I kinda need to—oh, hey, San.” Yeonjun gave a quick wave. “Can I borrow you for a sec? Kinda important.” 

“Yeah, hang on. Why, something happen?”

“No. Yes? Ugh, just come with me.”

Wooyoung gave a quick glance over to San as he tossed his shirt on and slid his feet into a pair of black sneakers. “I’ll be right back.” 

San nodded, and the door shut, leaving him behind to twiddle his thumbs as Yeosang sleepily leaned against the doorframe. He looked a little pale, like Wooyoung did earlier, but considering he made it all the way to the Hotel Ruby with a hole through his chest, he didn’t look that bad. 

“So, uh…” Yeosang started awkwardly. “Sorry about earlier.”

“It’s uh. It’s cool, I guess.” It’s _cool?_ Who says that to the person that shot them? Or drowned them? 

A silence followed. Yeosang cleared his throat eventually. 

“I guess I should thank you. I would have been thrown in Confinement if you hadn’t held off your partner. So… thanks.” Pause. “Why’d you do that, anyway?”

San sighed, leaning back against the couch with his fingers laced behind his head. “Who knows. I guess I just really suck at my job.”

“Wooyoung said you guys had some kind of falling out. I guess I just don’t understand your motives. He was pretty shocked when I told him what happened.”

“Motives… who needs motives. It’s all just a big simulation.”

“Huh?”

“Nothing. I don’t tend to think about things. I just do them.” San shrugged, letting his eyes fall shut as he relaxed into the couch. “Sometimes I try to think about consequences. Other times I guess I just don’t really give a shit.”

San laughed out loud. He felt a little like he was losing his mind, and part of him just wanted to let it happen. Like there was some chaotic alter ego that lived inside of him who just wanted to break shit and watch people bleed. It was usually kept in check by the part of him that had a sense of justice and order, but that piece of his mind was on vacation or something. Yunho was the only thing that kept him tethered to the reality where he was a good, lawful cop, holding him down to earth by a thread, and tonight he’d gone and snipped it. Like he was a balloon full of helium floating away from Yunho’s safe, familiar hands up into a jet turbine. 

“You’re starting to sound like one of the bad guys, now.”

“I aimed a gun at my best friend today. I think that makes me a pretty bad guy.”

“Yeah, it does.”

He wasn’t sure if it was Yeosang’s dry humor shining through, but he wasn’t wrong. San didn’t particularly care to hold a conversation with him, so he opted to focus on putting his shirt back on, taking care not to jostle his wound too much. It was already bleeding through the bandage, though, so he had to come to terms with the fact that his shirt was probably toast. San didn’t have answers for why he saved Yeosang, or why he came back to Wooyoung’s hotel. His night had been a massive, steaming pile of shit, but at least he’d gotten laid. He wasn’t really in a thinking mood. 

San’s mind had been a mess since the Yeosang incident a few hours prior, but his thoughts were oddly quiet now. There was something relaxing about being in the presence of people who lived apart from the law. Like he could have all of his secrets out on the table and it wouldn’t really change anything. Come to think of it, Wooyoung knew a lot about San that others didn’t. He seemed to be able to read him in ways that others never could before, and San didn’t know how to feel about it. Annoyed, maybe.

“How’d you guys meet?” San asked out of the blue. Wooyoung had mentioned they’d met before being turned into hybrids, and the idea of a non-hybrid Wooyoung was something San couldn’t even wrap his head around. He couldn’t possibly imagine a version of Wooyoung that wasn’t all sarcastic smiles, playful cynicism and eyes simmering with perpetual resentment and loathing. Unless he was always like that. 

“Bootcamp. We both joined right out of high school. We actually didn’t see each other again until I found him curled up in an alleyway, covered in blood. I’d been a hybrid for a while already, but he had no idea what the hybrid project even was. I kinda had to show him the ropes.” Yeosang crossed his arms as he recalled the memory.

“Ah. So you were a seasoned hybrid by that point?” San raised his eyebrows. 

“Hah, I guess you could say that. I was one of the first, actually. Or one of the first few dozen. I wasn’t exactly a success.”

“No hybrid was a success, though—technically.”

“There were a few, at the time. Ones who could control themselves enough without succumbing to the bloodlust. Unfortunately, I wasn’t one of them. I was a pretty promising test subject until I wiped out my entire platoon in one night.” 

San whistled. “That’s rough. Why were you chosen?”

“Because I was a model soldier, I guess. They could have made me into the perfect weapon,” Yeosang sneered, throwing out air quotes over _perfect weapon._

“Model soldier, huh? Wooyoung once told me they made him into a hybrid as punishment for deserting.”

Yeosang’s brows pinched together, just enough for San to notice. “Is… that what he told you? Nevermind. It doesn’t matter. Yeah, most of us were either forced or tricked into becoming hybrids. They like to lie and say that people volunteered to cover their asses.” 

_Is that what he told you?_ San wondered what he meant by that. Yeosang had already moved on before he could ask. “I heard all of the first generation hybrids were wiped out?”

“They were, supposedly. I’m one of the only few left. I only barely managed to escape after killing everyone. I was on a warship, miles out at sea when it happened. I was pretty lucky, I think, because I was able to slip away into the ocean. I don’t know how long I had to swim to get back to shore, maybe a few days? Something like that. It was hell, but I’m lucky I survived at all. All the other first gens were killed except one, I think. That I know of.”

“Except one? Who, you know him?” The more San learned about the underground, the more it felt like he’d only seen the tip of the iceberg. Even for highly trained, super elite government agents, much of the information about hybrids remained classified. All they knew was that they needed to be destroyed, and not much else. Asking too many questions made you a target for suspicion. It was chilling to know how much the higher ups really kept from them. As far as San knew, no first generation hybrids still remained alive, much less two of them. What else were they hiding?

“Yeah. He took us in, in a way. He was technically a ‘successful’ hybrid who worked in the research hospital as a medic, then he decided he didn’t want to be their pet anymore and burned the place to the ground. Released all the test subjects and ran for it. I was in there when the place went up in flames, in the supply bank stealing crates of mercy. I ran into him in all the chaos, and we kinda just stuck together from there.”

San remembered reading an article about a research hospital burning to the ground when he was still in training, but it was officially deemed a terrorist attack and left at that. All the staff had been brutally murdered, every doctor, nurse, medical assistant—all of them massacred in ways that didn’t align with that of a mere arsonist. Too messy, too personal. He’d been nicknamed the ‘caduceus killer’ in the papers before the media had mysteriously ceased coverage. That was before hybrids were known to the public, so it makes sense they’d want to cover it up. 

“What do you mean, ‘took you in?’” San asked. 

“I lived with him—Seonghwa—for quite a while. Hongjoong, too. Another fugitive, someone under the radar. I brought Wooyoung home after I found him in the alley, and Seonghwa made some joke about collecting strays. So we started calling them our ‘parents.’”

“Hongjoong? Why does that ring a bell?” 

“Kim Hongjoong? He’s kinda famous, I guess. He blew the whistle on the hybrid project?”

 _Kim Hongjoong_ … Wait, _the_ Kim Hongjoong?

“Holy shit, you know that guy? He’s like a bounty hunter’s wet dream! God, any agent would die to get their hands on him. He’s basically a legend.” San could feel shock written all over his face, but he couldn’t help it. 

Kim Hongjoong was the famous whistleblower who’d leaked the entire hybrid project to the public. He was a cyber warfare engineer for the military who’d had access to all the classified files—hybrids, vampires, sol, everything. He leaked them and vanished, leaving behind total chaos as the public erupted in backlash against the government. No one had seen him since, and he was on the top of every most wanted list in the country. San could only imagine the kind of bounty placed on his head. Lots of zeroes, no doubt.

“Yeah, sounds about right.” Yeosang shrugged. 

“Friends in high places. Or maybe it’s just a small world.” Between the most wanted man in the country, the infamous caduceus killer, and a first gen hybrid, Wooyoung’s friends sure had quite the pedigree. San was almost impressed. 

Yeosang laughed. He opened his mouth to say something, but closed it as he heard the click of the door handle. Wooyoung looked amused to see Yeosang having a civil conversation with San, acting cordial without having to be held at gunpoint. Which, honestly, San was pretty surprised about too. Not that it meant they disliked each other any less.

“Aw, were you having a heart to heart?” Wooyoung cooed sarcastically as he slipped his shoes off in the entryway. 

“No,” Yeosang said, at the exact time San said ‘yes.’ They exchanged a look, and Yeosang rolled his eyes. “Where’s Yeonjun? Everything ok?” 

“He left. He told me he’s leaving the country for a bit. It’s uh, safer. For right now. He just came to tell me about…I’ll tell you later, actually. It’s not important right now.” Wooyoung’s gaze flickered apprehensively from Yeosang to San and back, giving San the impression he wasn’t meant to know some things. 

“I see,” Yeosang said, nodding pensively. 

Whenever they got weird like that, it probably had something to do with V2. San didn’t know why Yeonjun would want to leave the country, but they were too tight-lipped about it for San to ask questions. Maybe Yeonjun wanted to avoid being taken as a hostage again. But why him? He had so many questions about V2—what was it, where did it come from, why the hell was Wooyoung involved—but he kept his mouth shut. Yeosang nearly killed him to keep its existence a secret, so prying didn’t seem like a great idea. 

“I should, uh… I should go. It’s late.” San stood up, shrugging his jacket on. The bloody gauze felt gross against the inside of his sleeve, but the sooner he got home, the sooner he could change it. 

It had been a really, really long night, and he was exhausted. Between getting shot and nearly drowned, whatever the hell that was that had happened with Yunho, and finding himself inexplicably back at Wooyoung’s hotel room, it was time to call it a night. His mind was too tired to sort out any moral dilemmas he was currently facing, so those would have to wait until tomorrow. He would have to face Yunho eventually, he was well aware, but that could wait. It was sitting right at the top of the list of things he did not want to think about. 

“Night, San.”

Wooyoung’s lips were turned up into a smile, but his eyes were distant, clouded with a gnawing anxiety.

[Wooyoung]

  


  


“Yeonjun, this is—are you insane?”

“Maybe. Please, just trust me.”

“We worked on this for _years,_ and you’re just gonna throw it away? I—I can’t. You think I can just—

“Wooyoung, listen to me! The second the wrong person gets their hands on this—god, I don’t even want to think about it. It was a mistake, ok?”

“I know it was a mistake. If I could go back and fix it, I would, but—“ 

“This is the only way. Please, don’t hesitate. Think of it like a killswitch—the second you press it, everything will ignite. Everything in the lab—poof. I hooked up a small bomb on either side of the room. Just don’t be in here when they go off.”

Wooyoung looked at the thing in his hand. He had a bad, bad feeling, like a storm was coming.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> nani?? a snippet of wooyoung perspective?? woah that's crazy
> 
> i have a playlist for this fic that goes hard as fuck if you wanna check it out [here!](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/5eGeySTdOkbL7GnwxifYW7?si=Srtv7kQNSbyvS_ZwvoA6hg)


	10. please... kill me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> huge tw for themes of suicide in this chapter!!

Seven days had officially passed since Yunho had stopped speaking to San. The last time they’d gone more than three days without speaking to each other was when San had accidentally deleted one of the save files on Yunho’s favorite game, and that was at least ten years ago. They’d never gone a full week without speaking, and the radio silence was a little eerie. San was thankful for Yunho’s decision to keep silent about letting Yeosang escape, but it had taken a major toll on their friendship. If they could even be considered friends anymore. 

San sighed internally as he poured himself a cup of coffee. He had a fresh stack of paperwork to complete in addition to the other stack he’d been putting off after the orgy bust. Dozens upon dozens of people were arrested on all kinds of drug charges that night, all big fish and a-list jackasses, and San fantasized about shoving the documents through the shredder. One by one, watching them turn to confetti as they got chewed up in its jaws. His boss probably wouldn’t be very happy if he did that. He set his mug down on his desk and fed the shredder a sticky note, pretending it was something more important than a blank yellow square. It gobbled the sticky note with an anticlimactic hum. 

San caught a glimpse of Yunho down the hall, smiling brightly as he conversed with someone as he usually did. Watching Yunho put up a happy front so easily like that made San feel queasy. Yunho was the expert at faking smiles in times of crisis, San had seen it many, many times, but he never quite got used to it. Yunho ended the friendly conversation with a wave, and began heading in San’s direction, smile fading into a neutral line. San clicked around on his computer, pretending to be busy as Yunho walked right behind his desk without a word. San didn’t spare a glance, but he could feel the air shift with a slight breeze as he passed. Like a ghost, there for a whisper and gone in a heartbeat. San shivered. 

“Yo,” someone greeted next to him. San looked up to see Jongho leaning against his desk, slurping from a steaming mug with raised eyebrows. “What’s the deal with you two?”

“What do you mean?” San asked, keeping up his facade of being busy, but Jongho was no fool. 

“You guys are like conjoined twins, but now you’re not speaking?”

“What makes you say that?” San asked flatly, fingers stilling on the keyboard. Jongho liked to be a little shit sometimes, but he was very perceptive and had a soft spot for his friends. He had a good ear for listening, it’s too bad San couldn’t tell him the full story. 

“In what universe would Yunho walk by your desk without saying anything to you? I feel like I’m in the twilight zone right now. It’s weird, I don’t like it.” Jongho sipped his coffee. 

San looked around. He gestured for Jongho to lean in closer with his hand. “We, uh…” San lowered his voice, scanning the room again to make sure no one was eavesdropping. “We uh. We kinda hooked up.” 

Jongho made a sound into his mug, which was immediately followed by a coughing fit as he inhaled some of his coffee. It took a moment for him to collect himself, then he looked at San like he'd just told him aliens were real. “You _what?_ ”

“I don’t know, ok. It just happened somehow, and now things are weird. It didn’t uh… It didn’t go that well.” Understatement, but yeah. 

“Since when does Yunho like dudes?”

“That’s what I’m wondering! I mean, it could just be me. I don’t know, it doesn’t matter. But now I don’t even know if we’re friends anymore. Don’t tell him I told you, ok?” Nothing he’d told Jongho had been a lie, but there were definitely a few huge pieces he’d left out. 

“Come on. You guys are like… I don’t know. You’re like a bagel and cream cheese. You have to talk to each other eventually.”

“He’s lactose intolerant, though.”

“Ok, fine, peanut butter and jelly. Whatever. What I’m saying is—”

Jongho was cut off by someone excitedly rushing over, waving papers in the air to get their attention. It was Agent Byun, who was his senior by half a dozen years, though he looked more like a teenager than someone in his 30s. 

“Hey! Double Choi! You guys hear about that hybrid that got taken in last night? Agent Park hauled him in on his own—no backup or anything. Guy has a hell of a lot of broken ribs, but can you believe that? God, dude’s a maniac! Anyway, they’re starting the interrogation. They’re streaming it live in the AV room right now. This is the first one in, what, like seven months? Don’t know about you guys, but I’m sure as hell not missing it.” 

Agent Byun waved his papers again, this time as a goodbye gesture as he hurried down the hall toward the AV room. He talked fast, and he had a smile on his face like he was on his way to watch a baseball game instead of a live torture session. San’s gut twisted with anxiety, and he sprang from his desk, his chair nearly toppling over as he scrambled up. San couldn’t help it, but he pictured Wooyoung’s face the moment Agent Byun had said the word _hybrid._

“Damn, you’re really hyped for this, huh? It has been a while since the last one, I guess,” Jongho said as he trotted after San. 

No, not hyped. He felt ill, his pulse racing as he imagined Wooyoung in restraints, a room full of people watching excitedly as he screamed and thrashed in agony. Hybrid interrogations were brutal. They had to be, since hybrids could heal quickly and their sense of pain was less than that of a typical human. San feared the worst as he pushed the door to the AV room open, forcing himself to look at the screen with bated breath. 

The hybrid in question had a mop of dark hair and a much larger build. He sighed in relief, his chest deflating as all of the air he was holding in left him, but his stomach didn’t feel any less sick. _What if it had been Wooyoung?_ The thought made him dizzy. San tried to relax as he found a spot in the back of the room to watch from. It was dark, but he could see the room was packed with agents all focused on the screen in anticipation. Jongho quietly joined him. 

“Anyone have popcorn?” someone joked, and a couple people laughed. San felt a surge of anger as disgust washed over him. Hybrids weren’t people. They were animals, monsters, vermin. A scourge on society. That was a fact without question, as far as the entire Special Operations division was concerned. Asking questions wasn’t in San’s job description. Getting to watch an interrogation was a treat, a privilege. Free entertainment on the job. 

San felt sick. He imagined Wooyoung in that chair, head drooping forward and arms cuffed behind him, his suffering on display like a movie as people laughed and joked in light hearted enjoyment. San couldn’t bear to watch as the interrogator commenced the session, sticking electrodes along different areas of the hybrid’s chest, beginning to ask questions as he calibrated his machine. The hybrid stayed silent. The interrogator calmly and methodically began tapping his fingers over a touch screen, and the hybrid began to scream. 

Electricity was a common method for interrogation, since it could be easily adjusted in varying levels of intensity. Screams of agony erupted through the speakers in the room, and a couple people cheered. Several others started placing bets on if and when he would crack and start giving names. Two minutes, ten minutes, an hour, never. Like watching a dog race, they betted on him for sport. Like an animal. 

“Sannie! I’m thinking ten. You were right last time, wanna get in on this? I might change my answer depending on what you throw out. You have a good winning streak going,” someone called to him from across the room. 

“I’m good,” San said, keeping his tone neutral, but his stomach lurched at the thought. 

San had always taken part in the betting pool. With enthusiasm, too. He had a winning streak for guessing when they would crack, and he would cheer and jump around when he won, collecting wads of cash from his colleagues. But not this time. This time, he felt sick, disgusted, ashamed. He was ashamed for ever having taken part in something so brutish and vile. Back then, he’d treated hybrids like animals, just like everybody else. He had a reputation for being great at what he did, and he was well respected by everybody, even those with much greater seniority. He was a cold, lethal hunting dog. Top in his class. 

What changed? And when? 

When had he gone from being a purebred hunting machine to a rogue mutt? Hell, he’d seen greater displays of loyalty and humanity from the hybrids he was supposed to be hunting. He felt disgust and hatred toward each and every person in the room, even people he’d known for years. People he’d gone to Christmas parties with, gone out for drinks with, laughed with, celebrated with. People he once thought of as friends, even. He felt nothing but hatred. Several people gave him looks of surprise and confusion when he declined, but he didn’t care. No part of him wanted to involve himself in their crude games. 

“Shit—I have a meeting. Is this being recorded?” someone asked.

“Yeah, they all are. Check the database later.”

 _Is this being recorded?_ Like a football game, or an episode of a sitcom. It may as well have been, based on how people were laughing and cheering. Hell, they may as well have had a potluck while they watched. Disgusting. 

The questions were all standard—where his friends were hiding, what their names were, who he sold to. The hybrid stayed silent through all of them, earning stronger shocks as he refused to answer. San found himself rooting for the hybrid, silently urging him to stay strong. He didn’t know why. He didn’t want to watch him suffer, but he didn’t want to see him break either. 

The hybrid convulsed violently after a particularly nasty shock, saliva foaming at his lips and oozing down onto his chest, eyes rolling back into his head until only the whites showed. San’s stomach lurched again, and he felt bile rising in his throat, burning in his chest like battery acid. He shoved through the crowd as he made a break for the door, bursting into the bright hallway and stumbling into the bathroom. He couldn’t even make it into one of the stalls, instead hunching over one of the sinks, gripping the countertop with clammy hands as he puked up the contents of his stomach. 

He retched into the sink again and again, plagued by the image of the convulsing hybrid in an endless mental loop. Plagued by the image of Wooyoung in his place. San could feel cold sweat dripping down his neck, and he shivered, fingers trembling weakly against the sink. He turned the faucet on, washing out the sink and cupping his hand under the stream to rinse his mouth. He felt another wave of nausea hit him like a train, and he retched again, watching bile swirl down the drain. 

“San?” Jongho’s voice called softly, cracking the bathroom door open slightly. “You ok?” he asked, sounding genuinely concerned as he entered. 

“I’m fine,” San panted, focusing all his energy into willing away the nausea. 

“It’s not like you to have a weak stomach for this type of thing,” Jongho mused, hovering a hand over San’s back but not quite touching. San splashed a few handfuls of water over his face, scrubbing away the sweat that had collected on his forehead, trying to snap himself out of whatever the hell this was. He shut the water off, staying hunched over the sink as he took deep breaths in and out, droplets of water trickling from his hair. 

“Yeah, I just feel off today. I’ll be fine.” 

The part about feeling off wasn’t a lie. He did feel off. Though, it wasn’t just today. It was every damn day. And it was getting worse. That feeling that kept itching under his skin, buzzing in his skull, tormenting his mind. He didn’t know what the feeling was, or how to stop it. He just felt restless, wrong somehow. Like there was a rock in his shoe that he could never quite find. Always there, always nagging at him. 

“You look really pale, are you sure you’re gonna be ok?”

San raised his head, meeting his own gaze in the mirror. Sure enough, he looked like a ghost. He yanked a paper towel from the dispenser and dried his face off, then scrunched it into a ball and threw it in the bin. “Yeah. Don’t worry about it,” he said dismissively, pushing past Jongho to open the door. 

San didn’t go back to the AV room. He’d seen enough, and he had paperwork to do. Not that he could focus on anything properly. He walked back to his desk without meeting anyone’s eye, keeping a firm thousand yard stare in hopes that no one would try to chat him up. The idea of small talk made San want to puke all over again. He collapsed into his chair, feeling it creak beneath his ass as he scooted up to his computer. 

San stared emptily at his desktop for a while, spaced out on his inbox as if an email about someone’s stupid retirement party held the key to the universe. He saw words on the screen, but nothing was soaking in. His hand was sweaty against the mouse as the sound of the hybrid’s screams rang in his ears again and again. He desperately needed a distraction, and Barbara the old record clerk’s going away potluck wasn’t cutting it. No offense to her. She always smiled sweetly at San and told him he looked like her grandson. 

Records? An idea suddenly dawned on him, but he hoped he was wrong. He swallowed as he clicked off his email page. 

Someone in the AV room had been told to check the database for interrogation recordings. There was a password-protected online database that every agent had access to, which was home to all kinds of files. Interrogations, famous confessions, dash cam footage, CCTV, you name it. San wasn’t sure, but if there was a chance that the experiments from nearly a decade ago were recorded and stored in the archives... 

San swallowed as he entered his password. He navigated to the archives, filtering the result first by decade, by year, then by type. Interrogations sorted by precincts, by name, news articles by city, interviews… Then he found it. Projects. Click, drop down. It was alphabetical, and his eyes immediately jumped down to the bottom, where a long title stood out to him. 

_“Vampire-Human Cellular Assimilation Experiment—Clinical Trial Phase”_

From that title came a long list of names and serial numbers, which San sorted alphabetically. He knew Wooyoung’s last name started with a J—what was it? Jang? Jung? 

There were dozens of people whose last names began with J, but there was no Jung Wooyoung. If he had been part of the hybrid project, shouldn’t he have a recording somewhere? Some kind of evidence, maybe? San sighed, running a hand through his hair as he searched his brain for an answer. 

Then it came to him. If not the hybrid project, then what about the sol experiments? San went back a few pages, until the “projects” screen filled his monitor. Sol had a lot of names, so he wasn’t exactly sure what to look for. His eyes scanned up and down the list, but nothing jumped out. It was possible they didn’t record them, or that they had been purged. San was about to give up his search, until a particular title caught his eye. 

_“[REDACTED] Stimulant 1-18 Phase 1”_

It looked sketchy as hell, but it was worth a shot. San hesitated, then clicked it. The subsequent list of names and serial numbers was even longer than the last. There must have been thousands of names, and San felt dizzy as he scrolled down to the _J_ section. He would end his search if he didn’t find anything, and leave it at that. He didn’t know what he was looking for exactly, or why, but a morbid curiosity was gnawing at him, egging him on. San’s stomach fluttered anxiously as he scrolled through the _H_ list, then down through _I._

_Jung Wooyoung [000437]_

San hovered his cursor over the name. He hadn’t really expected to find anything, and he wasn’t sure he wanted to continue. It felt incredibly invasive to snoop through his file, but he’d already come this far, and his curiosity wouldn’t let him turn back. He clicked the name, which spawned a page full of files organized by date. The oldest was from nine years prior, which fits the timeline, since Wooyoung had told him he had enlisted right when he turned eighteen. He and San were practically the same age, after all. 

San opened a random file. It took a few seconds for it to load, then began playing a video. The camera was positioned behind a wall of glass that looked out into a gray room. It was likely a one-way mirror, like the kind they used in interrogation rooms. The room was sparse, no windows, and a heavy steel door in the back the only thing breaking the monotony of the plain walls. The room was brightly lit but lacked any energy whatsoever, clinical and sterile like an operating room. 

There was a boy in the center of the room. He was sitting with his wrists strapped to the arms of a chair, an IV dripping fluid through a long line into one of his arms. His head was lolled forward and slightly to the side, giving the impression he was unconscious. He looked thin, so much so that the bones of his wrists jutted out from his skin, and his beige clothing hung so loosely from his frame that his sunken collarbones stuck out in deep, skeletal ridges. His skin looked as fragile as paper, stretched over his bones with a sickly, pallid color that matched the room around him. 

Wooyoung? 

His fingers twitched, then his head lifted slowly, heavily, like it took a great deal of effort. Thick black hair clung to his face with sweat, his eyelashes fluttering as he adjusted to the brightness of the room. As he lifted his head, San got a good look at his face. He was clearly much younger, his features softer and more boyish, but it was definitely Wooyoung. Though he was younger, his face looked hollow, withered far beyond his years. His eyes seemed to stare off at something far away, empty and devoid of life. 

Wooyoung had something around his neck, like a collar of sorts. If glistened a gunmetal silver in the cold light of the room, pulsing in a soft ring of intermittent blue light. The restraints on his wrists were the same carbon fiber material they used on hybrids, though it was hard to imagine such a frail kid needing restraints at all. His feet were bound too, and the steel chair itself was bolted to the floor with heavy industrial fasteners. 

Wooyoung coughed, his face twisting in pain as he stirred, his breathing suddenly becoming fast as if every inhale coated his lungs in glass. His fingers trembled as his wrists flexed against the restraints, dark bruises flowering where they had dug into his skin. He cried out in pain between gasps of air, writhing in his seat as if it was on fire beneath him. His pallid skin glistened in a sheen of sweat, clinging to his neck like dew drops. 

San was hit with another wave of nausea. He’d seen how sickly and pale Wooyoung had looked after Yeosang drank too much of his blood, but it was nothing like this. He looked more like a corpse than a young man, so frail and fragile that he could barely lift his own head. He must have been about eighteen in the video, and that alone made San want to vomit. How could a kid barely out of high school be subjected to this type of suffering?

San bit back his nausea as he continued watching. Every cell in his body was radioactive with fury and hatred, disgust coursing through his veins like toxic sludge. He did his best to calm himself down, but his muscles ached to tear the head off of whoever put Wooyoung in that room. He clenched his fist over the mouse, fingers trembling with anger. 

San remembered their conversation from that night in the car. Wooyoung had told San his story, how things came to be, why he became a hybrid in the first place. He had told San about becoming a test subject, how it was his punishment for trying to desert from the army after being forced to carry out heinous orders. He was just a kid trying to escape, and this is how they chose to punish him? Using him as an example to prevent others from doing the same—is that what they call discipline? 

Vile. Absolutely vile. 

San kept his eyes glued to the screen, fuming silently. The heavy steel door creaked open, and someone in pale lavender scrubs entered the room. Her face was obscured with a mask, her eyes expressionless as she approached Wooyoung. She fiddled with the bag of fluid hanging above his head, removing it from the stand, completely ignoring the wails of agony echoing against the walls of the room. 

Wooyoung’s screaming turned into hoarse panting, like even his voice was too weak to vocalize his pain. A tiny voice croaked out a few simple, heartbreaking words, and San felt them like a knife to his gut.

“Please… kill me.”

But of course, the nurse said nothing. Not even when he begged her, not even as he cried. She checked his restraints, fastening them tight before administering something through his IV line from a syringe. She left the room, not sparing a single glance as Wooyoung convulsed against the chair. 

The pulsating light from the collar turned from blue to pink, flashing steadily, like it had been activated. If San had to guess, it probably had something to do with measuring vitals, but he couldn’t be sure. Wooyoung twisted and thrashed in the chair, hoarse screams ripping from his throat. The restraints dug into his skin, bruises darkening angrily as he thrashed so hard it looked like his frail wrists would snap. 

San clicked off the video. He sat back, taking deep breaths to calm himself. He had no desire to keep watching, but something drew him back to the list of files. In a fucked up way, San felt like it gave him a lot of insight about who Wooyoung was, and where his seething resentment toward authority came from. Hell, after seeing that, San can’t even imagine why Wooyoung would want to be in the same room as him. 

There were dozens of files in the list, the dates spanning the course of nearly a year. _A year? He endured this for a year?_ San exhaled shakily as he clicked on the oldest file on the page. He bounced his leg anxiously as he waited for it to load. 

The Wooyoung in this video looked more alive, his face fuller and skin richer, eyes alight with fear and confusion. It was almost harder to watch, knowing already how much his condition was going to deteriorate. He looked around wildly, eyes wide with panic as he fought against his restraints. He probably had no idea what was happening to him yet, just a teenager, alone and terrified. 

Several people in lavender scrubs entered the room, snapping gloves onto their hands and wheeling instruments on trays toward the chair. Wooyoung begged them to let him free, but they ignored him as they worked. One hung a bag of saline from the stand, another worked on threading an IV into his arm as he screamed and pleaded for them to stop. Another nurse fitted the collar around his neck, and it lit up with a hum as it locked into place. 

San clicked off the video. He couldn’t bear to watch Wooyoung get turned into a guinea pig, a lab mouse for them to play with. It made San’s skin crawl, and if he hadn’t already puked up the entirety of his stomach’s contents, then he probably would have again. His eyes flickered to the top of the page, where the final file sat right at the top of the list. February 9th. 

As much as San couldn’t bear to see any more, he was still curious about the final date. Was it when he stopped being a test subject for the drug and was transferred into the Vampire-Human Cellular Assimilation Experiment? Why did his record seem to end there? 

San clicked it. He immediately wished he hadn’t. The Wooyoung in the final video looked almost unrecognizable, gaunt and gray, like every drop of vitality had been squeezed from his body. His hair fell in a dull veil around his expressionless face, and his chest rose pitifully with each labored breath, lungs wheezing like just being awake sapped every ounce of his strength. His skin was covered in bruises, and deep scratches marred his arms in angry red trails. He was impossibly frail, like his bones could barely keep him upright, too weak to act as a framework. 

Something about this video was strange, which was that the glass that the camera filmed through had been shattered. Jagged edges framed the corners of the screen, hanging like silver stalactites. There was no glass on the floor of the room, just the bland gray tiles as usual. Had he broken free after being given the drug and smashed the mirror trying to escape? Whatever the case, Wooyoung was still there, still suffering. 

Wooyoung started twisting one of his wrists, pushing his fingers together to reduce the circumference of his hand. He kept twisting and pulling until his hand started to slide free, gritting his teeth against the pain as his bones were smashed together. Slowly, his hand tugged free, his emaciated state working to his advantage as his thin hand slipped out of the restraint. 

Did he escape the research facility? Something didn’t add up, because he hadn’t been made into a hybrid yet. Did he get caught? San kept his eyes intently fixed on the screen in front of him. 

“Hey!” 

A pair of hands slapped San’s shoulders from behind, and San nearly had a heart attack. 

“God—fuck! Jesus, Byun, what the fuck?” 

“Jeez, what are you so jumpy for? Whatcha watching, huh? Ooh, experiments? Were you feeling inspired by today’s show?”

Agent Byun hovered behind him, enthusiastically looking over his shoulder. San scoffed internally at his use of the word _show_ , but ignored him in favor of watching the screen. 

“Wait, I think I’ve seen this one. Oh man, they used this clip in training seminars, I think. Yeah, they had to change a bunch of protocols after what happened.” 

“After what happened?”

“Keep watching. You’ll see.” 

San frowned, keeping his gaze fixed forward. As Wooyoung pulled his hand free, he looked at it, giving his fingers an experimental flex as if he wasn’t sure they still worked. A single drop of blood fell from his lips, and he spat something out onto his lap. He picked it up, gripping it tightly between weak fingers. It was flat, shiny, and small enough to fit in his palm. 

A… mirror shard? 

Wooyoung’s shoulders rose and fell as his breathing became more shallow, and the shard shook in his fingers, but he held it tightly, drops of red pooling around the edges as it cut into his hand. Wooyoung pointed the tip down and brought it to the arm that was still restrained. 

San watched in horror as he dragged it across his wrist, blood spilling onto the smooth tile around his feet as it sliced through his skin. Wooyoung’s face was twisted in pain, but something else in his face shone through his previously empty expression. _Desperation._

Wooyoung gave a weak grunt at the sting of the shard, but quickly transferred it to his other hand, holding it steady. He slashed his other wrist against it, letting the shard clatter to the floor in a pool of blood. He tipped his head back against the chair, and San could see wet streaks glinting against his cheeks. His shallow breathing grew more erratic as the minutes passed, eventually becoming slower and less frequent. His head fell forward as he lost consciousness, his dull beige clothing soaked with a vibrant red, just like the tiles around his feet. 

“See, they upped security after the incident. Wasn’t this kid turned into a hybrid? Yeah, think so. Would have looked really bad if one of the subjects offed themselves. Shit’s crazy, right? Kinda ironic that they saved his life by making him a hybrid, considering he’s probably dead now anyway. Let’s watch another!” 

Agent Byun slapped his shoulder excitedly, pointing at another file on the screen. San’s blood felt like it had been replaced with ice water, and his hands felt weak, clammy. The image of Wooyoung surrounded by a pool of his own blood flashed anew each time he shut his eyes, even for just a second, and he felt hollow inside, like every organ had been removed entirely. He wanted to get up and run, but he wasn’t sure his legs could hold him. 

He got up and ran anyway, legs shaking underneath him as he staggered into the bathroom. 

San retched into the sink.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> all aboard the angst train choo choo jk i promise it'll get better next chapter ok
> 
> i have a playlist for this fic that goes hard as fuck if you wanna check it out [here!](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/5eGeySTdOkbL7GnwxifYW7?si=Srtv7kQNSbyvS_ZwvoA6hg)


	11. a big heart for a fugitive

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> this chapter took slightly longer than usual but that's because i've been writing them completely out of order like a psycho. also i officially updated the number of chapters this fic will have to 25?!? nani??? i have a master plan believe it or not

_parking garage. asap. val was kidnapped._

That wasn’t good. 

San’s last two outings with Wooyoung had been a total disaster, but that didn’t stop him from hopping in his car and flooring it to the Ruby. He’d been seeing Wooyoung regularly again over the past week, falling back into his routine of puncture wounds and late nights. Yunho still hadn’t spoken to him, but the sex was enough of a distraction that he found himself caring less. Nymphomania wasn’t a valid coping mechanism, according to Wooyoung, but San had to disagree. It was perfectly valid. And he hated being psychoanalyzed.

Wooyoung’s panther black Audi R8 roared to life the second San flung the door shut, engine revving angrily as he climbed in. An MP5 fell heavily into his lap as Wooyoung tossed it over, and he picked it up in his hands, getting a feel for its weight. It gleamed a deadly charcoal in his hands, and his fingers itched to take it for a spin. It wasn’t often that he got to let loose with an automatic weapon. 

“Might need that,” Wooyoung said as he peeled out of the parking lot, tires squealing against the asphalt. He looked pissed, his jaw in a hard set as he stared out the front windshield. “Extra magazines in the glove box.” 

“What’s going on? What do you mean Val was kidnapped?” 

San popped the glove box open, and sure enough there were a few extra 9mm 30 round magazines thrown in on top of some napkins, some condoms and a pack of gum. San laughed at Wooyoung’s choice of essentials. 

San held the submachine gun in his hands, messing with it as he glanced at the GPS at the center of the dash. The destination was set to a red dot a few miles away, flashing every so often as the satellite signal updated with its new location. 

“They call themselves Black Dragon. Don’t know much about them, but their boss bought Val from a sex trafficking ring, but my buddy Hongjoong pulled her out before they got to her, and now I’m basically in charge of babysitting her.” 

Wooyoung’s hand clenched the stick with a white-knuckled grip, shifting furiously as he tore down the road, weaving through traffic like a mad man. His foot kicked down the accelerator like speed limits and red light cams were a thing of myth. 

“How’d they find her?” 

“Don’t know. Val isn’t even her real name. We got her new papers and everything—completely wiped out her old identity. I promised Hongjoong I’d keep her safe. Fuck! He’s so gonna kill me,” Wooyoung cursed, eyes flitting between the GPS and the road. “He gave her a bracelet to wear with a tracker in it, just in case they ever found her.” 

“Kim Hongjoong, right? Yeosang told me about him.”

“He did? Yeah, he’s a genius with computers. More brains than brawn, that’s why I agreed to help him.” There was a loud honk as Wooyoung aggressively cut someone off, earning a middle finger from the driver of a blue pickup. “Black Dragon’s boss isn’t too happy she got away. She wasn’t cheap, I heard.”

“A vigilante now, huh? Rescuing women from sex slavery?” San mused. 

“Pretty much. He has a big heart for a fugitive.” 

Wooyoung abruptly jerked the wheel, sending the Audi skidding into a drift through a busy intersection, expertly sliding between cars just a hair’s breadth away. The tail end nearly scraped the paint off some poor Toyota, but Wooyoung regained control just in time to avoid it. The tires screamed beneath them, clawing at the pavement like a living beast. The tires smoked, and the smell of burning rubber permeated the foul city air. San planted his feet beneath him to keep from lurching forward, laughing in awe at Wooyoung’s skills. 

“Where the hell did you learn to drive like that?” 

Wooyoung’s mouth turned up into a smirk, but his eyes remained locked on the road. “I have to retain some mystery, don’t I?” 

Flashing lights in the rear view caught his attention, and San whipped his head around to look out the back. Sure enough, a cop was on their ass, siren blaring angrily in hot pursuit. They’d be calling for backup soon, no doubt. 

“Fucking nuisance,” Wooyoung spat under his breath, jerking the wheel and yanking the handbrake, throwing the car into a smooth drift to shake them off. The Audi changed direction immediately, cutting around a sharp corner, and the flashing lights disappeared into a tangle of confused traffic. The engine roared as Wooyoung pounded his foot down onto the gas, tearing down the dark city streets as the pinpoint on the screen grew closer. “Up there.” 

A black BMW accelerated and gave a swift turn upon seeing the Audi engage, cutting in front of an oncoming truck to put distance between them. Another siren howled from behind, voices shouting commands over a loudspeaker. Lights flashed furiously in the mirrors, illuminating the street behind them in a wash of red and blue. San rolled his window down.

“What are you doing?” Wooyoung asked, side-eyeing him as he pulled his mask up onto his face and started climbing out the window. 

“Taking care of it,” San said matter-of-factly, and he hung his body halfway out the window, aiming his SMG at the cop car. He fired before they had a chance to retaliate, a dozen rounds shattering the windshield and turning the two of them into Swiss cheese. The car swerved as the driver was taken out, barreling into an SUV in a groaning symphony of colliding metal. 

San climbed back into his seat. He probably should have felt something aside from joy when he fired on his own allies, but no, he just smiled down at the weapon in his hands, muttering “this thing is great.” 

Wooyoung whistled. “You’re having an awful lot of fun over there. What if you knew those guys?” 

“Who cares? Cops are pigs,” San laughed, feeling strangely giddy over having riddled his colleagues with bullets. 

“Here-here,” Wooyoung said with a grin, sailing around a corner with another smooth handbrake drift. The BMW came into view again, and a hand hooked out the passenger window to aim a pistol at them. San went for his weapon, but Wooyoung stopped him. “Don’t, they have Val. It’s too risky.” 

Wooyoung swerved to avoid the gunfire, weaving through traffic with his teeth gritted in irritation. The tail end of the Audi clipped the mirror off a Hyundai, and Wooyoung cursed loudly. The BMW cut in front of a city bus as it pulled out into traffic, barely slipping away, leaving the Audi boxed into a gridlock. Sirens howled again, angry cops closing in like a pack of wolves. Lights flooded the street behind them, and San hopped out the window once more, his body hanging off the side of the car with his weapon poised to shoot. 

San let loose with the MP5, feeling it kick against his body as he squeezed the trigger, an endless stream of bullets firing through the police cars. It was easier to aim now that they weren’t moving, and San took out three cops before one could even aim his weapon. A smile formed under his mask as he took them out one by one, like some kind of gruesome arcade game. He ducked back into the car as a pistol shot rounds in his direction, popping back up to retaliate when the other stopped to reload. He squeezed the trigger again, and the cop flew back against the seat with a spray of blood.

The traffic in front of them cleared as the light changed, and Wooyoung tore down the street, engine roaring, leaving behind the bloodied wreckage of several police vehicles, sirens left wailing as their drivers laid lifeless inside. San ejected the mag, tossing it behind his seat. 

“You’re a hell of a shot,” Wooyoung praised. 

“I take my job as a Special Ops very seriously,” San said, trying to keep a straight face despite the terrible irony of his statement. Wooyoung laughed aloud. San kept his head on a swivel, scouting for any adversaries trying to flank them. 

“Look, the signal quit moving. Think they stopped somewhere?” Wooyoung gestured his head toward the screen on the dash. 

“They’re in a building—a massive one. What the hell is that?” San squinted at the screen, trying to figure out what the building was. The street names looked familiar, and it dawned on him. “The Espada?”

“That huge casino? Makes sense, actually. I’ve heard some things about that place, but I had no idea Black Dragon was involved. I’d be careful with them—they have a lot of power, and their leader is pissed at us for stealing his merchandise.”

“You’ve heard things? What kind of things?” San asked, eyebrows pinching together. “I’ve never heard of a gang called Black Dragon.”

“They puppeteer a lot of smaller gangs. You’ve probably heard of a few. Alpha Royals, Aces, Psychs, Gun Hounds, they’re all just Black Dragon with different marketing. Pretty much all I know about them is that they’ve been around forever. Like, hundreds of years, at least.”

“Great, so why’d you piss them off?” 

“I didn’t do shit. Hongjoong and Seonghwa got a little too crazy with their charity work, I had nothing to do with it. I owe them a few favors, though. So here I am.”

“Seonghwa? He’s the one who burned down that hospital, right? The Caduceus Killer?”

“Yeah, why?” 

“He’s a hybrid, why not have him do it?” 

“He’s, well…” Wooyoung thought for a second. “I guess you could say he’s kind of a pacifist. Fighting isn’t really his thing.”

“What kind of pacifist slaughters an entire hospital’s staff?” San asked, genuinely puzzled. 

“That was one time. He was really mad.”

“Yeah, I’ll say,” San scoffed. 

“And Hongjoong is just a human, which is why I was in charge of looking after Val.” 

“What do you mean ‘just a human?’” San pouted. 

“You don’t count as a regular human. You’re… I don’t know. You have a very particular skill set. Hongjoong is a computer guy, he’s not equipped to be waving guns around.” Wooyoung shrugged, eyes glancing back and forth between the GPS and the road. 

“Aw, I’m flattered.” 

“Look, up there. You were right about the casino. The pin quit moving, they must be in there somewhere,” Wooyoung said, gesturing out the windshield toward an imposing tower of lights and windows, looming overhead in a grand display of wealth and opportunity. Or debt, depending on how you look at it. The place was massive, like an entire city stacked up toward the heavens in one colossal heap. San had to crane his neck up to see the top of it. 

“How the hell are we going to find her in here?” San asked. 

“As long as she has the tracking bracelet on, we should be able to. He made me an app to track it, actually.” Wooyoung pulled out his phone, showing the same screen as the GPS on the dashboard. 

“How convenient. It won’t tell us what floor, though, will it?” 

“No, it won’t. But I’m willing to bet there’s a basement. There has to be somewhere they can drag a girl around without being seen. We’ll just have to find a way in.” 

Wooyoung pulled into the parking garage, the screech of the tires echoing against the concrete enclosure as he looped around all the way to the bottom level. He parked the Audi inconspicuously along the back wall, pulling a mask over his face as he hopped out. San followed. Wooyoung popped the trunk, and San’s eyes were met with a glorious display of weapons and ammo all packed into a travel sized arsenal. 

“Holy shit,” San breathed in awe, eyebrows raised as he scanned over the selection. Wooyoung picked up an Uzi, stuffing his jacket with loaded magazines and a backup pistol for good measure. 

“Might be overkill, but you never know. Let’s play it safe.”

“No, overkill is nice. I like it,” San said distractedly as he ran his fingers along the body of a gorgeous AR-15. “You’re so fucked if you get pulled over.” 

“My driving record is squeaky clean, I’ll have you know.” 

“Mhm. Something tells me you don’t even have a license.”

“Hey, not my fault the DMV is only open during sunlight hours.” Wooyoung shrugged. 

“Hah. Knew it.” 

“I don’t want to hear it from someone who just took out a dozen cops. Last I heard, you get in way more trouble for that,” Wooyoung teased, elbowing San lightly in the ribs. 

San laughed, shoving a few magazines into his jacket. The AR would have to wait for another day, he decided. There was overkill, and then there was just plain ridiculous. The MP5 had served him quite well earlier, and he wasn’t ready to part with it quite yet. Wooyoung slammed the trunk shut, and they briskly made their way to the locked employee door embedded in the concrete wall. 

Wooyoung slammed his foot through it, knocking it open with ease. The crash reverberated down the empty hallway on the other side, echoing against the bare, fluorescent-lit walls. San followed Wooyoung in, keeping his eyes peeled for any sign of human life. His fingers itched against his weapon, like an excited dog tugging at its leash. He really needed to get a grip on his tendency to get trigger happy.

They were quite a few levels down, but nothing stood out as being worthy of suspicion. The basement corridors were bland and stale, not even a wandering employee to speak of. The deepest levels were probably all but forgotten about, a sad relic of a time before the casino had been renovated. A few of the open rooms were full of junk, but most were completely empty. 

“Hang on,” Wooyoung said suddenly, halting his steps. “I think I smell something.”

“Like what? Val?” San couldn’t smell anything, which didn’t come as a surprise. 

“No, like…” Wooyoung frowned, eyebrows furrowed in thought. “Weed.” 

“Weed?” 

“Weed, tobacco, something else, maybe. That’s better than nothing, I guess. It’s stronger this way,” he said, turning left where the hallway branched off. San followed him, shoes squeaking against the dusty tile beneath his feet. 

The hallway was a dead end, leading only to an empty room. Wooyoung glanced down at his phone. The pin was closer, but still inaccessible, and he made a noise of frustration. “There has to be a way down. This isn’t the deepest level.” 

San poked his head into the room, his eyes met with nothing but old filing cabinets and a metal folding chair. There was a closet door on one side, like it used to be some kind of office. “Do you still smell it?” 

“Yeah, it’s getting stronger.”

“Wait, look,” San said, pointing to the floor in front of the closet. There was a faint scuff mark from someone’s shoe, and lines on the tile where the dust had been disturbed. San closed his hand around the doorknob, giving it an apprehensive twist, throwing Wooyoung a look over his shoulder. It was locked, unsurprisingly. He moved aside, and Wooyoung kicked it open.

Sure enough, it wasn’t a closet. It was a staircase, and light filtered through the slats between steps. He couldn’t hear any movement below, but the presence of light suggested it was recently occupied. Wooyoung gave him an excited pat on the shoulder. “Nice!”

Wooyoung descended first, and San followed closely behind, gripping his weapon tightly. The metal stairs groaned under his feet, shaking with the lingering vibrations from each step Wooyoung took. They reached the landing, and were met with a hallway that looked much the same as the ones above. They crept down the corridor, listening for signs of life. 

San heard a voice, and he and Wooyoung immediately raised their weapons. They stayed close to the wall, silently waiting for their targets to round the corner. 

As soon as a foot stepped into frame, Wooyoung lunged forward, smashing the butt of his gun against the guy’s temple, dropping him like a rock. He took out the second target in a blur, and San couldn’t even tell what had happened until he heard the sound of a skull cracking against the hard concrete floor. Two bodies lay strewn on the ground, and they dragged them by the legs around the corner to keep them hidden. They ran down the hall, leaving the two unconscious men behind.

The secret corridor turned into a maze of hallways that branched off from one another, much like the hallways above them. San followed Wooyoung as he chased the scent of the smoke, wandering deeper into the bowels of the casino to find its source. They were close enough that San could smell it, though very faint. 

Sudden footsteps grabbed their attention, and they turned just in time to see three more Black Dragon members approaching from behind. They drew weapons upon seeing the intruders, and San squeezed the trigger of the MP5, rapid fire echoing brutally in the cramped tunnel around them. They dropped to the floor, splattering the pale walls with streaks of red. 

“Someone definitely heard that,” Wooyoung huffed, dragging San with him as he started running. There was a commotion up ahead as bodies flooded out from one of the rooms down the hall, half a dozen men in tidy suits and diamond jewelry blocking their path. Wooyoung fired the Uzi, and the men hit the deck as a storm of bullets came at them. Two men dropped dead, crumpling to the floor as their cohorts returned fire. 

Wooyoung cursed as a bullet went straight through his shoulder, but his finger didn’t relent on the trigger. The last man standing fired off three more shots, then fell dead to the floor as San put a round through his head. San released the mag as all his rounds were spent, fishing a hand in his jacket for a backup. He shoved it into the well until he heard it click.

Wooyoung did the same, tossing the spent mag onto the floor as he reloaded. San threw him a look of concern as blood poured down his arm, steadily dripping onto the floor. 

“I’m fine,” Wooyoung hissed through his teeth, pressing onward down the hall. The walls were smeared with red like the aftermath of a paintball fight, and San did his best not to let his boots get soaked as he dodged the puddles leaking from the Black Dragon corpses. 

They crept down the hall, weapons poised to shoot at the slightest sign of movement. Wooyoung left a trail of blood in his wake, scattered droplets trickling from his arm with each step. San grabbed him, forcing him to stop in his tracks. He reeled on San, shooting him an irritated glare. “I said I’m fine!”

“You’re not fine, dumbass! You’re gonna bleed out!” San grabbed Wooyoung’s wrist, who huffed in protest.

“I’m not gonna bleed out!” Wooyoung yanked his arm away, droplets splattering against the wall. San sighed through his nose, glancing around to make sure the coast was clear. There was an empty room in the hall just behind them, and San grabbed Wooyoung by his jacket collar and dragged him in.

He shoved Wooyoung into the dark room, pulling up his sleeve in preparation to make him drink, but the sound of footsteps made him freeze. San whipped his head around as a shadow appeared in the doorway, and San immediately raised his gun. San’s finger halted on the trigger upon recognizing his face.

The figure kept his gun pointed at San, but his eyes widened in surprise. “Choi San?”

“B-Byun?” San choked out, bewildered by the sudden presence of his colleague. 

Agent Byun looked around the hallway, lowering his gun as he entered the room after San. “What the hell are you doing here?” he hissed, a look of confusion painted all over his face that matched San’s own. Wooyoung’s eyes flickered silently between them.

“What are you—“ he started, completely taken by surprise. Agent Byun didn’t seem to recognize Wooyoung’s face from the tapes in the archive. He did look quite different, after all, and the room was dark. 

“Gathering intel. I’m with Agent Kim, I thought we were the only two that—“ Byun cut himself off as he noticed Wooyoung bleeding all over the floor, who he approached with skeptical concern. 

“Uh, don’t worry. He isn’t a Black Dragon,” San said, and Byun came to inspect Wooyoung’s shoulder. “Where’s Agent Kim?”

“Upstairs, high limit room. We split up to avoid suspicion.” Byun shoved his gun into his jacket. 

Of all the things he possibly could have expected out of their little casino trip, running into Agent Byun was not one of them. It was potentially one of the worst case scenarios. Agents Byun and Kim had come to act as undercover Black Dragons, and if San was supposed to come, there’s no way they wouldn’t have known about it. It wouldn’t take Byun long to figure that out, so his options were quite limited. 

San had two choices: kill Agent Byun, or try to lie his way out somehow. The problem there was that it would eventually get back to the bureau, and they’d have a few questions for San regarding his presence at the casino. He would then have to lie his way out of that, too, and his alibi wasn’t exactly up to snuff. Even if he was successful, that would surely put unwanted attention on him, and his life would become much harder. 

“That looks bad,” Byun said, eyebrows furrowed as his eyes flickered from Wooyoung’s shoulder to the small puddle of blood on the floor. “Kim can handle himself here, we need to get you to a—“ 

San gave Wooyoung a look, silently conveying his intention. Wooyoung caught on immediately, grabbing Agent Byun in a headlock, immobilizing him. Byun’s eyes went wide as he looked at San in shock, clawing at Wooyoung’s arm in a futile attempt to get free. 

“H-hybrid? San, he’s a—“ 

“Oh, I know,” San said, lips turning up into a coy smile. 

“What the hell are you—“ Byun choked out against the arm squeezing his throat. “Are you with Black Dragon?”

“Hah! Not exactly. I guess you could say I’ve gone rogue.” 

San met Wooyoung’s gaze, lips turning up into a smile of esoteric amusement. 

“The hell do you mean you’ve gone rogue? Are you insane?” Agent Byun scoffed indignantly, fierce glare aimed at San. 

San reached into his jacket, pulling out the pistol he brought as his backup. Agent Byun’s eyes followed the motion, widening in panic as the weight of the situation dawned on him. 

“Wait, Choi—stop!” 

San cocked his gun, meeting Byun’s eyes with a cold stare. He’d considered them to be almost friends—at one point in time, at least. Agent Byun was funny, social, and well liked among the entire division. They’d gone to the same work parties, same events, worked the same cases, and they’d always gotten along. 

However, San couldn’t forget the look of joyful apathy on his face as he watched Wooyoung slit his wrists, like some kind of movie. Not a shred of humanity in his expression, nor warmth in his heart. To him, hybrid interrogations held entertainment value, and it made San sick. The world didn’t need people like him. Not that San had much choice on where to go from here, anyway. Maybe he was just trying to justify it to himself. 

San gave a quick nod, and Wooyoung let Agent Byun fall from his grasp. San grabbed him, shoving the gun against his temple. 

“Kind of ironic, huh? What you said about that boy in the video,” San said lowly, spinning him around to face Wooyoung. 

“What? What are you talking about?” Agent Byun’s voice shook with stress and confusion.

“He look familiar to you?” 

Wooyoung quirked an eyebrow, obviously lost, but Byun’s face lit up in recognition. He looked at San in a panic, quickly piecing together the situation. 

“Look, I’m sorry! I didn’t mean—“

San pulled the trigger, a shower of blood erupting from Agent Byun’s head, drenching San as his body fell lifelessly to the floor. San casually moved his arm up to his face, using his sleeve to scrub away the droplets of blood. Wooyoung raised his eyebrows, examining the body on the floor. 

“What was that all about? Do I know him or something?” Wooyoung asked, crossing his arms as he leaned against the wall. 

“Uh… no. Don’t worry about it.” 

Wooyoung gave a little _pfft,_ but seemed to let it go. “Killing your own kind now, huh? You really have joined the dark side.”

“Shut up. He would have figured me out eventually, and we still have to get Val back. It would have been difficult with him around.” San shrugged, wiping his gun off against his pants and stashing it back in his jacket. He felt the need to justify his actions, like it would somehow mitigate the fact that he’d just killed someone in cold blood. 

“I didn’t say it was a bad thing. You know I like to watch agents bleed.”

“Even me?” San pouted.

“Especially you.” Wooyoung smirked, giving San a flirtatious wink. “Speaking of which…” 

Right, Wooyoung was still oozing blood from the bullet wound in his shoulder. San pushed his sleeve up, extending it out to Wooyoung. It was nostalgic, in a way. Wooyoung didn’t typically drink from his arm, instead opting for more sensual locations like his shoulders or his hip bones, sometimes even his inner thighs. But they were a little pressed for time, so his arm would have to do. 

Just as Wooyoung was about to sink his fangs in, a slow clap sounded from the doorway. They whipped their heads toward the door, startled by the sudden, noiseless appearance of the new figure. 

“Sorry to interrupt. I was just so taken aback by your marvelous little display of treason.” 

Wooyoung reacted first, whipping out his pistol and aiming it at him. 

“Hey, now. No need for that. Not that it would do much, anyway,” the man said, casually leaning against the doorframe. 

“Who are you?” San demanded. 

The man had a bizarre appearance, with long pink dreadlocks cascading down his back, a floral print jacket that reached all the way to his knees, and some kind of demon creature tattooed on his throat. His amused eyes raked over Agent Byun’s bloody corpse, and he crossed his arms over his chest. 

“Call me Zico. Nice to meet you, Choi San.”

“How do you—“

Zico tapped his ear. “I could hear everything. An Ops killing one of his own? I gotta say, that’s a new one for me. And I’ve been around a while.”

“You’re a hybrid?” Wooyoung asked cautiously. 

Zico smiled, dragging his tongue over a set of sharp fangs. “Try again.” 

San’s blood ran cold. If not a hybrid, then… “A vampire?”

“Bingo.” Zico clicked his tongue, throwing up a finger gun. “Come on, let’s chat.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> apologies for the lack of sexual intercourse these last two chapters but next chapter will be spicy af pinky promise
> 
> i have a playlist for this fic that goes hard as fuck if you wanna check it out [here!!](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/5eGeySTdOkbL7GnwxifYW7?si=Srtv7kQNSbyvS_ZwvoA6hg)


	12. a king and an ace

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> hey again all you lovely sluts. we gettin naughty today

“Come on, let’s chat.”

Zico gestured at them with a nod of his head, leaning off the doorframe with an expectant stare. San threw Wooyoung a quick glance, silently conveying his apprehension, and took a hesitant step toward the door. Wooyoung did the same, his posture stiff with doubt. 

“Are you gonna be ok?” San whispered against his ear. They were interrupted before Wooyoung had the chance to drink, and the bullet wound in his shoulder continued leaking blood steadily down his arm. It took a lot to kill a hybrid—hell, Yeosang made it all the way back to the Ruby after being shot in the chest—but San was concerned nonetheless. 

“Yeah, I’m fine,” Wooyoung whispered back, bringing a hand up to cover the wound. 

“Don’t worry, kiddo. I can spare you some juice,” Zico called over his shoulder, his floral jacket billowing dramatically as he marched down the hall. 

“Where are we going?” Wooyoung asked carefully. San could feel the tension radiating from his body, clearly on edge. Vampires weren’t something to be taken lightly, a fact San knew all too well. Their last encounter with vampires had resulted in some serious scars and months of physical therapy. Seeing Wooyoung look so uneasy made his stomach twist, and he tried his best to stay calm. 

“To where the fun is.”

Zico stopped in front of a set of rickety, graffiti-maimed double doors at the end of a dim hallway. It was a dead end, with one measly light bulb trying pathetically to illuminate the walls, and the scent of smoke intensified the closer they got. Zico pushed the doors open, waving them through. A tattoo of a clown’s face caught San’s attention, etched in black ink on the back of his hand, and the design seemed familiar. He couldn’t quite put his finger on it, but something about it made his skin crawl. He briefly wondered how vampires could have tattoos, but kept his question to himself.

San entered first, following Zico into the thick fog of cigar smoke and kush that permeated the air, so dense it stung San’s eyes. He held in a cough, letting his gaze dance around the room in wonder, realizing they were in a bar. 

Billiards loudly clattered together, followed by the triumphant laugh of the guy wielding the cue. The guy at the other end of the pool table cursed, tapping the ash from his cigar into an empty beer can. Heavy metal blared from a glowing jukebox, filling the room with angry snares and wicked guitar licks. Neon signs radiated light from every angle, the walls covered in a vast array of patterned guitars and vinyl records. There was a couch off to one side, occupied by a man hugging two women under his arms, and one more on her knees delivering enthusiastic fellatio. No one seemed to pay them any mind. Zico led them further inside, motioning for them to take a seat around a table covered in sloppy piles of poker chips. 

Val sat at the table, her wrists zip tied in her lap and duct tape slapped over her mouth. Her eyes widened as they walked through the door, silently pleading for help. Wooyoung threw a glance between them, his poker face faltering the moment their eyes met. Wooyoung liked to pretend she was a chore to look after, when in reality he actually cared—San could tell from the way his jaw clenched and his eyebrows pinched together almost imperceptibly. San wasn’t sure what was stranger—Wooyoung exhibiting one of his rare displays of concern for someone else, or the fact that San apparently knew him well enough to pick up on it. 

Someone else was there too, a short young man with every inch of his skin covered in tattoos aside from his face. He leaned back in his chair with his feet kicked up onto the table, a joint lazily hanging from his lips and a bowler hat tipped down over his eyes. Zico shoved his feet off the table, which caused him to nearly tip over in his chair with a started yelp. 

“What’s your problem?” the short man snapped, pushing his hat out of his eyes to glare at Zico. 

“Up for a game?” Zico gave a smirk as he pulled out a chair, its metal legs screeching against the floor. The man gave them a quick once-over, raising his eyebrows at the unfamiliar company. 

“No thanks. Who’re they?” he asked. It sounded more bored and disinterested than aggressive. 

“We have mister Government Agent over here,” Zico waved a hand toward San, “and mister, uh… Phony Fangs.” 

Wooyoung snorted indignantly. “Huh?” 

“Pseudo-vampires are an irritating bunch. Hybrids? Whatever—can’t say I’m a fan.”

“Funny, I feel the same about full vampires,” Wooyoung retorted, earning a rich guffaw from Zico, who gave the tattooed man an amused punch to the shoulder. Zico then stole the joint right from his mouth and took a hard drag, the cherry burning almost a whole inch down the roll. He let out a massive cloud of smoke, saturating the air in the sour scent of kush. He handed it back to the man, who took it with a glare, examining the significantly stubbier roll between his fingers. 

“C’mon, sit. I don’t bite. Y’all want a drink or something? Oh, that’s right—Phony over here needs some juice.” Zico snapped his fingers at the bartender, who came over and leaned against the table in front of him. “Hey, doll. Give him one of our specials. And get this one something more, uh…” He gave San a look. “Vegetarian.”

What the hell was that supposed to mean? The situation was so bizarre that San didn’t feel like questioning it. The bartender blew a bubble with her gum, popped it, and silently walked away. They sat across the table from Zico, who pulled Val’s chair closer and tossed an arm around her shoulders. She winced at his touch. 

“I think I can guess why you’re here. My buddy Hyo wasn’t too happy when his lady went missing. It’s been what—a year? And he still won’t shut up about it, so I decided to do him a little favor. He’s really into you, you know?” he told Val, poking her lightly in the cheek. 

“Hyo? Black Dragon’s leader?” Wooyoung asked, his face stern. 

Zico leaned back into his chair, folding his arms behind his head with a pondering sigh. “Yeah, sure. Tell me, what do you know about Black Dragon? I’m curious.”

“Not much. Just that it’s been run by the same family for generations,” Wooyoung replied. 

The tattooed man next to him gave a small laugh. “Sure makes you feel old, doesn’t it?” 

“‘Generations?’ God, how old are we now, Taeil?” 

“Lost track,” the tattooed man—Taeil—responded dryly. 

“Ah, fuck. Me too. What if I told you that Black Dragon has only had one leader—say, for the past nine hundred years or so? Could be more, I dunno. I stopped counting.” 

“He must be a vampire, then.” 

“Yep, but the guy’s so whiny you’d think he was seventeen. Threw a hissy fit over his little human crush getting stolen. Real heartbroken over it. I was this close to strangling him. Hey, wanna know something?” he asked rhetorically. 

Zico sat up in his chair, resting his elbows on the table in front of him. He picked up a poker chip, absently playing around with it between his fingers. His eyes met San’s, a smirk pulling at the corners of his mouth. 

“You know, Black Dragon has a twin. The name ‘Red Tiger’ ring a bell to you?” 

San caught another glimpse of the clown tattoo on the back of his hand, and suddenly it hit him. _Red Tiger._ Long ago, many years before San was ever born, Red Tiger was one of the most notorious gangs ever to exist. They ruled the streets during the Prohibition era with an iron fist, famous for bringing even the most hardened mafia bosses to their knees. They brought chaos to the whole continent, steeping its citizens in fear as they unleashed anarchy like horsemen of the apocalypse. They were all but wiped from history texts after mysteriously disappearing in the next decade, but the classified government archives still recount tales of brutal massacres committed by clown-faced hands. 

San’s jaw dropped in realization, and Zico gave a dark smile, his fangs gleaming dangerously in the red neon haze. “I’ll take that as a yes.” 

Wooyoung threw a confused glance his way. Few people knew of their existence, after all. The only people who did were those who had access to the files… or those who lived through it. San wasn’t sure if what he was feeling was awe or terror. Maybe a little of both. 

A glass of amber liquid appeared in front of San as the bartender came back, ice cubes rattling against the sides. Wooyoung’s glass contained something viscous and sanguine, the rim lined in salt and garnished with a leafy stalk of celery. He shuddered internally. Suddenly he knew what Zico meant by “vegetarian.” 

“I thought they all died out,” San said carefully, taking a sip from his drink. It was scotch, which he hated.

“Some people think Black Dragon was responsible for wiping us out. We never went anywhere, really. I’ll let you in on a little secret. Red Tiger, Black Dragon—“ he tossed away the chip in his hand. “—they’re the same thing. A two-headed beast.”

“I don’t understand.” San fidgeted with his glass, rubbing his fingers against the rim. It was cold against his fingertips. 

“Two sides of the same coin. See, we used to be one gang. Well, not a ‘gang’ so much as a _crew._ Seven immortal seafaring misfits with nothing better to do than plunder merchant ships and drink ourselves silly. The Seven Seasons—remember her, Taeil? God, I miss her.”

“Aye, captain. A real beauty.” Taeil took a drag off his joint, gazing distantly in reminiscence.

“Your… ship?” San asked curiously. 

“Pirates?” Wooyoung blurted in disbelief, nearly spitting out his drink.

“Aye! The days of freedom and adventure. Now it’s all politics and drugs and—well, I guess it’s always been like that. Opium’s just gone out of style. Anyway, I had a falling out with my first mate, Jaehyo, and he ran off with half the crew. That little shit.” Taeil passed the joint, and Zico finished it off with another long drag. He flicked it onto the floor, stomping it out underneath his boot. 

“Can’t even remember what you guys fought about, at this point. His fuse was always pretty short. Still is,” Taeil mused. 

“Ah, who cares. Point is, we kissed and made up a few decades ago. We’re one entity again. A two-headed beast. You could say Black Dragon is more the business end of things, but I’m not really about all that. I’m just here for the fun—which brings me back to the girl,” he grinned, grabbing a deck of cards off the table, expertly shuffling them around in his hands. “What do you say we have a little wager?”

“Wager?” San asked, stilling his fingers on his glass. 

“We’ll use her as a bargaining chip. You win against me, you can keep her. You lose, I give her back to Hyo. I’ll even let you pick the game. What do you say? Poker? Old maid?” 

“Why give her back? What’s in it for you?” Wooyoung questioned, skeptical gaze bouncing between Zico and Val. 

“Because, Phony. I don’t care what happens either way. I don’t believe in motives or politics or any of that crap. I’m just here for a good time, that’s all,” Zico shrugged. The sentiment was oddly relatable, coming from an ancient vampire-pirate-turned-mafia-boss with pink dreadlocks. If there’s anything San could understand, it was the notion of chasing chaos. 

“And what if we don’t?” San wondered, more out of curiosity than anything. 

“Well...” Zico started. A playing card zipped by San’s hand so fast he almost didn’t see it. He looked down, and a segment of his glass had been cleanly sliced away, a joker card sticking out of the floor, lodged into the wooden paneling like it was made of butter. San swallowed. “...That would be pretty rude, wouldn’t it?” Zico finished with a dark smile. 

San wasn’t a huge gambler, but he was no stranger to risk. He cracked his knuckles with a smile, meeting Zico’s challenging stare.

“Blackjack,” he announced. 

Zico’s eyebrows shot up. “Blackjack? I knew I liked you. Alright, here’s the deal. We go ten rounds—you win more than half, she’s all yours.” 

Val’s eyes jumped to the men sitting around the table, brows furrowed with anxiety. Her chest rose and fell as her rate of breathing increased, clearly not thrilled at the idea of becoming a human chip. Wooyoung looked at her, then at Zico.

“Both of us?” Wooyoung asked. 

“Sure, why not. As long as one of you wins at least six rounds, it’ll count.” 

Zico grinned widely, shuffling the cards with a speed and technique that would put any Vegas dealer to shame. “Now, blackjack is one of those games with a level of uncertainty no matter what. You can count cards, memorize tables, yadda yadda… You could do everything right and still lose. I think the fact you picked it says a lot about you, kid.” 

“So you’re a psychologist, too?” San teased boldly. 

Zico laughed, loud and hearty. “Nah, I’ve just been around awhile. You’re a wildcard, I respect that. Everybody knows the rules, yeah?”

“Twenty one to win,” Wooyoung said as he tossed the rest of his drink back, shoving his empty glass to the side. He ran his tongue over his red lips, giving San one final glance, and a corner of his mouth turned up into a smirk. San’s chest fluttered with anticipation, fingers drumming against his thigh under the table.

Zico placed one card in front of Wooyoung, then San, then himself. Another to Wooyoung, another to San, and his second card remained face down. San looked down at his cards. A five of hearts and a six of spades, for a total of eleven. 

“Hit,” Wooyoung announced, making a curling motion with his finger over the table. Zico dealt him a three, which put him at eighteen. He waved his hand, indicating he wished to stand. 

“Hit,” San echoed. He was dealt a three as well, and he hit again. Four of diamonds, tying him at eighteen with Wooyoung. They were on the same side, but if their wins were to be counted separately, he had to be careful. He decided to play it safe and stand. 

Zico flipped over his hidden card. He scored fourteen, and Wooyoung sighed with relief. They each scored one round. So far so good. 

Zico dealt the next round. Eleven for Wooyoung, eighteen for San, a jack for Zico. Wooyoung hit, a five putting him at sixteen. He glanced at San’s cards, motioning with his hand for another card. An eight. At twenty four, it was a bust. 

“Bust,” Zico smirked, shifting his gaze to San. 

San bit his lip, motioning for another card. Twenty two. Fuck. Zico flipped his second card over, revealing a five. San let out a frustrated sigh through his nose, shoving his spent cards off to the side. 

“Careful, kiddo,” Zico warned, an amused smile on his face. He dealt the next round. 

Hit, hit, stand. Hit, stand. Twenty for Wooyoung, nineteen for San, twenty two for Zico. 

Hit, hit, hit, bust. Hit, hit, stand. San stood at twenty, Zico busted at twenty four. 

Wooyoung hit twice, busting at twenty three. San pulled nineteen and stood. Zico flipped his card, pulling sixteen, then pulled another, busting at twenty five. 

Halfway in, and things could be worse. Wooyoung had scored two to San’s four. Despite being in the lead, his hands were sweaty, and his foot tapped anxiously against the floor. Each round felt excruciatingly long, like each card was being flipped at quarter time. Wooyoung placed a hand on San’s knee under the table, stilling his bouncing foot. 

“Tell me, Choi San,” Zico suddenly piped in. “How did a Special Operations agent come to kill one of his own?” He held the deck underneath his fingers, pausing before he picked a card. 

“It’s… a long story.” 

“If there’s one thing I have plenty of, it’s time.” Zico gave a tight smile. 

San pursed his lips, wiping his sweaty hands on his pants. “Let’s just say my priorities are a little fucked at the moment.” He glanced at Wooyoung, who squeezed his knee under the table. 

Zico nodded, eyes narrowing in thought. “Rogue mutt, huh? How did it feel to kill him?”

San scoffed. “More psychology?” 

“Just curious.”

San licked his lips, mulling over his answer. How did it feel to kill Agent Byun? Strangely… just? He searched within himself, trying to find an iota of guilt living somewhere inside his chest, but he couldn’t. He pictured Byun’s corpse lying at his feet, the fear in his eyes right before he pulled the trigger, the tremble in his voice. Nope, nothing. He felt remorseless, devoid of sympathy. Maybe it was on a delayed fuse. San wasn’t sure if that would make it better or worse. 

He’d felt strangely smug when pulling the trigger, like he was an angel of death enacting some kind of fucked up justice on the wicked. Agent Byun had been just another blind-eyed sheep in the government's horde, and San felt like the wolf in disguise. 

A small smile tugged at San’s lips as he spoke. “Felt good.” 

Zico’s smirk turned into a full on grin. He gave a slow clap, nodding in approval. “You know, I didn’t wanna make you nervous by saying this—but I can hear your heartbeat. You’re not lying—I’m impressed.” 

“Impressed that an officer would kill in cold blood?” 

“Not just that. I’m impressed at your honesty. You government dogs are stubborn to a fault. Hm, what’s the word I’m looking for? Ah—prideful. Even the most corrupt officers will justify their actions and lie to themselves until they’re blue in the face. I like that you don’t sugar coat.” Zico dealt out another round. 

“Can’t exactly sugar coat murdering a federal agent,” San laughed, like it was somehow funny. 

“I guess not,” Zico agreed somewhat absently, seemingly lost in thought. He dealt a card to himself, face down, and looked at Wooyoung expectantly. 

“Hit,” Wooyoung gestured over the table. He’d pulled fifteen, busting at twenty two. 

San had sixteen. He hit, busting at twenty four. “Fuck,” he cursed under his breath. 

Next round, Wooyoung pulled eleven, hit, four, hit, twenty three. Bust. 

“I’m out,” Wooyoung huffed, a muscle in his jaw flexing as he clenched his teeth. This many rounds in, there was no way he could score at least six. He gave San a look, silently conveying that everything was resting on him. No pressure or anything. 

San hit after pulling fourteen. Twenty. He held his breath as Zico flipped his card over, and exhaled as he revealed eighteen. Only three rounds to go. 

“You look stressed,” Zico commented. San didn’t reply. 

Next round. San pulled two sixes and decided to hit. Everything went in slow motion as Zico dealt him a card. He flipped it over, and San’s heart sank. 

“Bust,” Zico pouted mockingly. 

“I just need one more to win,” San assured, riding on false confidence, as the odds were no longer in his favor. Not that they ever were. 

“We’ll see,” Zico sang, dealing San his cards. 

A seven and an eight. San pursed his lips tightly. It was a huge risk either way. Zico had a king, and standing at such a low number would surely be a bad idea. 

San took a deep breath. “Hit.”

Zico tossed him a card. A seven. San’s hands were icy in a cold sweat, his stomach full of rocks. 

“Wah-wah.” Zico flipped his card, an eight. 

“Fuck,” San cursed under his breath. He looked at Val, whose eyes were squeezed tightly shut. San didn’t blame her. If it was him, he couldn’t watch either. Her freedom was teetering on a thin precipice, and San only had one more chance. 

“Well, this is a little boring,” Zico drawled, tapping his fingers against the top of the deck. “I say we raise the stakes a little.”

San and Wooyoung stared at him. There were a lot of things San was feeling, but boredom was not one of them. However, something told him he didn’t get to argue. 

“How so?” Wooyoung’s voice was level, but his eyes betrayed his stress. 

“I have an idea. Hear me out—you can both play this last round. As long as one of you wins, you can keep your girl.”

“And the catch?” Wooyoung asked, dripping with cynicism. 

“The catch, right… Alright, whoever wins gets the girl. Whoever loses…” Zico held up a revolver, priming the hammer with his thumb. 

Loser takes a bullet, huh? San looked at Wooyoung. Not that they had a plan or anything, but this night was really not going according to plan. He swallowed. 

“Deal,” San said sternly, smiling as he met Zico’s intrigued stare. Zico’s lips turned up into a crooked grin, his fangs gleaming like a dangerous accessory. San was no stranger to risking his life. He preferred it, in fact, and his heart gave an excited squeeze as adrenaline flooded his veins. 

“Deal,” Wooyoung echoed, sliding his gaze back to Zico. 

Zico laughed excitedly, nodding with approval. “Alright, kiddos. Last round—don’t fuck it up.” 

He dealt to Wooyoung first. 

A king and an ace. 

Wooyoung looked down at his cards in disbelief, a puff of shocked laughter escaping his lips. 

“A king and an ace. A natural—nice one, Phony. Lucky you.” 

“Only one of us has to win, right?” Wooyoung asked. 

“For the girlie, yes. But you both still have to play.”

Two cards fell in front of San. Val’s freedom was as good as won, but it was San’s life on the line now. A few flimsy playing cards in front of him that would decide if he lived or died. The numbers on the cards seemed so arbitrary, yet his life hung in the balance. He looked down to see which two cards would determine his fate. 

A queen and a four. Well, here goes nothing. 

“Hit.”

A card fell in front of San. A six. Not quite a natural, but a twenty was pretty damn good. Zico reached for the face down card next to his jack. He flipped it, and San’s blood ran cold. 

Another jack. 

They’d tied. Which, in blackjack, was not a good thing. In the case of a push, the dealer always gets the win. San stared numby at the jack on the table, silently contemplating his demise. 

“Push, huh? Bummer,” Zico sang, raising the revolver at San. Everything was in slow motion, like they were suddenly underwater. Zico had pulled a jack, and now San was going to die.

San stared down the barrel of the gun, clenching his eyes shut as Zico’s finger squeezed the trigger.

A gunshot rang out, and San was on the floor. 

Warm blood rained onto him, crimson droplets splashing into his hair and running down his face. Wooyoung towered over him, clutching his chest as it rose and fell with heavy, labored breaths. He heard Zico howling with laughter across the table, mirthfully clapping his hands together. Wooyoung swayed on his feet, leaning against the table to keep himself up. San pieced everything together in his head. 

Wooyoung had just taken a bullet for him. 

“Wooyoung!” he cried, scrambling off the floor as fast as he could. San frantically gripped at Wooyoung’s clothes, steadying him as he swayed. “Are—are you crazy?” 

“I’ll heal if I get shot. You won’t.” Wooyoung gave a painful laugh through clenched teeth, his hand clenching the fabric over his chest where he’d been shot. Blood poured from his sternum, drenching his entire torso and down his pants, forming a puddle on the floor. 

“Well, now. Not only do we have a cop who kills cops, but we have a pseudo-vampire who would take a bullet for one? You guys are a riot,” Zico cackled. “Your heads are screwed on backwards, that’s for sure.” 

“What about—the game?” Wooyoung panted. 

“Huh? What about it?”

“You never said one of us had to die. We’re—hah—taking the girl.” 

San looked over at Val. Tears were streaming down her face, dripping over the streak of silver tape. Zico spun the revolver around his finger a few times, humming in thought. He shot them a calculated glance.

“I have a proposal.”

San immediately tensed, his fingers tightening protectively against the sleeves of Wooyoung's jacket, like somehow doing so would protect him against a millennium aged vampire. Wooyoung leaned into his touch, overtaken with fatigue as blood poured from his chest. 

“Relax, kid. You’re free to say no—I just thought I’d give you an offer.” The revolver stilled in Zico’s hand.

“What’s the offer?” San asked. 

Zico leaned back in his chair, folding his arms against his chest. “Why don’t you join Red Tiger?” 

San did a mental double-take. Did he just say _join_ Red Tiger? That was like casually asking someone to join the Illuminati. San was still trying to wrap his head around the fact that Red Tiger still existed, and now their leader was extending them a personal invite? Not to mention the fact that he’d just tried to kill San mere moments prior.

“Why the hell would we do that?” Wooyoung demanded, clearly not interested. 

“Do you know what the whole point of our game was? To make things interesting, yeah? I told you before, I don’t give two shits what happens to girlie over here. Take her, don’t take her—it makes no difference to me. I just wanted to have some fun. Being immortal gets real stale. Right, Taeil?” 

He looked over at the tattooed man from earlier, who’d been leaning back into his chair with his hat tipped over his face like he was pretending to be asleep. “Mm,” he mumbled. 

“I go where the chaos is. Either that, or chaos follows me. I’m not really sure. Point is, you two made an impression on me. Birds of a feather flock together, yeah? What do you say?” At the final word, Zico kicked his feet up onto the table, lounging into his chair as he waited for an answer. 

“I appreciate the offer, but I’m still a cop, after all,” San declined with a cheeky smile.

“I figured as much. Well, you know where to find me if you change your mind.”

“Right, I’ll remember that.”

San’s eyes flickered back down to the clown face on Zico’s hand. Something told him this wasn’t the last he’d be seeing of Red Tiger.

“What do you say we go for a little joy ride?” San purred into Wooyoung’s ear, and Wooyoung gave a smug smile. 

“You like the way I drive, huh?” His gaze flickered suggestively over San’s face. 

The night had ended with zero casualties—on their end, at least—and San was in the mood to celebrate. Val—or Hwasa, which was her real name, as San had been informed—was safely in Yeosang’s hands. San had Wooyoung caged against the driver’s side door of the Audi, eyes full of mischief underneath the dim lights of the parking garage. 

“Maybe,” he grinned, pressing Wooyoung against the car with his body. 

“I suppose I could teach you a thing or two,” Wooyoung murmured against San’s ear, hands tugging at the collar of his jacket. 

  


  


Wooyoung switched gears, the speed gauge needle creeping to the right as he whipped along the empty street, engine roaring as the pistons fired in all of its V-10 glory, dual exhaust crackling aggressively in the still air of the night. He kicked the clutch and sent the Audi screeching into a violent turn, tires smoking beneath them as he drifted into the lot of an abandoned shopping mall. San cheered loudly, one fist hanging out the window, the other braced against the dash to keep from toppling over against the force of the turn. 

San couldn’t help the ecstatic laughter that bubbled from his chest as Wooyoung threw the car into a tight donut, a wide grin on his face as he jerked the wheel hard left. The Audi spun around and around, leaving a blackened ring against the asphalt and the scent of burnt rubber in the air. San’s yell was all but drowned out by the sound of the tires clawing pavement and the crackle that ripped from the muffler, harsh and deafening. Wooyoung braked into a screeching halt, and San’s head fell back against the seat as he laughed. 

“Jesus, who the hell are you? Dom Toretto?” San looked over at him in astoundment. 

“I am kind of a Fast and Furious aficionado,” Wooyoung boasted. 

“Clearly.”

“Mhm. Turned on?” Wooyoung shot him a coy smile. 

“Definitely,” San breathed, dragging Wooyoung in for a messy kiss. Wooyoung laughed as he reciprocated, fisting his hands into San’s shirt and sliding his tongue into his mouth. Wooyoung slid a hand down to palm San’s cock through his jeans, admittedly already a little hard. There was no point in hiding it. 

“Can I fuck you in your car?” San panted, breaking away.

“Hell no! It’s gonna be a bitch to clean,” Wooyoung scoffed, and San pouted. Wooyoung’s lips turned up into a sly smirk. “You can fuck me _on_ my car.” 

Well then. 

  


  


San scuffed his boot against the black ring on the asphalt, giving an impressed whistle. He leaned against the hood of the car, waiting for Wooyoung while he fished around in the center console. He joined San a few moments later, shoving a little bottle of lube into his hands. San snorted. 

“Oh, I see. You planned this.” San set it on the ground for later. 

“I plead the fifth,” Wooyoung grinned, snaking his arms around San’s neck. 

“Mhm. And you think _I’m_ a nympho,” San teased, pulling Wooyoung against him as he sealed their lips together. His hands fell down to Wooyoung’s ass, giving it a firm squeeze through his jeans. Wooyoung sighed and rolled his hips forward, pressing San against the hood of the car. San slipped his hands under the hem of Wooyoung’s shirt, letting them wander over his ribs and up his chest. 

His fingers brushed over his sternum where he’d taken a bullet. The skin was healed, but San could feel streaks of dried blood from where the wound had been, rough against San’s fingertips. He pulled back, his lips hovering just above Wooyoung’s as he spoke. 

“We gonna talk about the fact you took a bullet for me tonight?” San wondered, a smug smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. 

“What’s there to talk about?” Wooyoung let his lips faintly brush against San’s. 

“C’mon, just admit it. You like having me around,” San teased. 

“If you die, then who’s gonna fuck me over the hood of my car?” Wooyoung purred against the shell of his ear. 

“So that’s all I’m good for?” San fake pouted. 

Wooyoung snickered, dragging San back in for a rough kiss. His tongue found its way into San’s mouth again, fingers tugging at his shirt. San hugged his arms around his waist and spun him around, shoving him against the Audi with a grin. Wooyoung gave a soft grunt as his ass hit the hood. He pulled back, panting slightly.

“Are we gonna talk about the fact that you shot one of your coworkers in the head?” Wooyoung asked, mirroring San’s question. 

“What’s there to talk about?” San mimicked. 

“You’re officially rogue, huh? I like it. You make a better criminal than a cop.”

“Ouch, harsh,” San winced. 

“It was a compliment!” Wooyoung insisted. “You’re cute when you get all vicious.” 

“You give the weirdest compliments.” San rolled his eyes, and Wooyoung giggled, kissing along his jaw. San rolled his hips forward, dragging his hard cock against Wooyoung’s through their clothes, earning a gasp and a soft bite to his neck. San groaned, his fingers digging into Wooyoung’s sides underneath his shirt. 

“It drives me crazy sometimes, you know. Not being able to bite you here,” Wooyoung breathed, dragging his tongue in a wet stripe along San’s throat. 

San shivered, a shaky breath escaping his lips. “How come?”

“It’s where you smell the best.” As if to emphasize his point, he dragged his fangs along his skin, hard enough to make San flinch a little, but not hard enough to leave a mark. 

“What do I taste like?” San asked with a laugh, but he’d been a little curious about it, admittedly. Wooyoung placed wet kisses along his throat, humming in thought as he pondered his answer. 

“Mm, kinda tough to explain, but type B is my favorite. It’s a little bit…sweeter?” 

San’s eyebrows shot up. “I never told you my blood type. That’s so creepy that you’re able to tell.”

“Creepy? You’re so mean,” Wooyoung whined, pulling back to pout at San. 

San snickered and pulled him in closer. “Sorry, didn’t mean it.” He bonked his forehead against Wooyoung’s when he pretended to ignore him. “I’d let you bite my neck, but it would be a little weird if I suddenly started wearing turtlenecks to work everyday.” 

“I can’t picture you in a turtleneck.” 

“Exactly.” 

Wooyoung laughed and pushed San’s jacket off his shoulders, letting it crumple against the pavement. He dipped his fingers underneath San’s shirt, tracing them along the ridges of San’s abs as he continued kissing along his neck. San moaned at his touch, his dick aching in his pants. 

San dipped down, hooking his hands behind Wooyoung’s thighs to hoist him onto the hood. Wooyoung’s legs squeezed around his waist, San’s tongue sliding down his throat in a sloppy kiss. Wooyoung moaned into his mouth as San grinded roughly against him, hands pressed flat against the hood. 

Wooyoung’s hands started working at San’s belt, clumsy and impatient. He sank his teeth into San’s bottom lip as it finally came undone, yanking his pants down to eagerly wrap a hand around San’s cock, fully hard in his grasp. San groaned as Wooyoung pumped his fist, smearing a drop of precum across the head with a swipe of his thumb. San panted against Wooyoung’s neck, nipping along the sensitive skin of his throat. 

“Fuck,” San cursed as Wooyoung’s thumb circled the tip, bucking into his fist. He grabbed Wooyoung by the waistband of his jeans and dragged him forward, a growl of impatience rising from his throat. He worked Wooyoung’s belt open, palming his cock through his underwear, and Wooyoung slipped his jacket off and tossed it onto the ground. 

San pulled him off the hood, tugging his jeans down to access his cock. Wooyoung moaned against his lips as San pushed his underwear down, fisting his hand around his cock as it sprang free. He fell back against the hood as San worked his hand along his shaft, bracing himself against the cool metal surface. His mouth fell open and his head tipped back, cursing under his breath as San stroked him. 

San was hornier than usual, all riled up from their joyride antics, his dick halfway hard the entire time Wooyoung floored it down the highway. His body ached for more, impatient and needy, and he grabbed Wooyoung and spun him around until he was bent over the hood of the car. Wooyoung laughed breathlessly at San’s aggressive maneuver, grinding his ass against his dick like he was intentionally trying to drive him insane. And, honestly, it was working. 

He gave Wooyoung’s ass a harsh slap, causing him to help and flatten against the hood. San gave another slap, kneading with his fingers as he teased his cock along his ass, spreading his cheeks apart with a hard squeeze. He picked the bottle of lube up from the ground, flipping the cap and squeezing some into his palm. He slicked his cock with it, wiping the excess off on Wooyoung’s entrance, teasing with his finger in little circles. Wooyoung whined against the hood. 

San gave his ass one more slap, then slowly eased the tip of his dick in. Wooyoung’s ass looked incredible from this angle, and he ran his hand along the arch of his back, feeling the twitch of his muscles beneath his shirt. He groaned deep in his throat as he pushed in, the sudden tightness around his cock shutting his brain off like a switch. He squeezed Wooyoung’s ass harder, fingernails digging in with more force the deeper his cock went. 

“Mm, god, fuck,” Wooyoung moaned, his forehead falling against the hood, silver strands of hair fanning against the glimmering black steel. His fingertips squeaked against the smooth surface as he struggled to hold on, clawing against the car as San’s cock eased all the way in. San took a second to collect himself, pushing down on Wooyoung’s back to flatten him against the Audi. He bit back a groan as the change in angle forced his cock deeper, tipping his head back at the sensation. 

San pulled nearly all the way out, then slowly pushed back in, and the sound Wooyoung made practically dissolved his self control right then and there. He held it together, giving a few shallow thrusts as Wooyoung adjusted to the feeling of his cock. He leaned forward, pressing his hands flat against the hood on either side of him. 

“San,” Wooyoung whined, and there went all of his control. He had a carefully formulated plan to not cum in three seconds, but he wasn’t so sure of it anymore. He gave a hard thrust, and the car shook beneath them, rocking in time to the motion of San’s hips. 

“Fuck,” San growled, giving Wooyoung’s ass another slap as he started fucking him in earnest. The car rocked on its suspension as San set a quick pace, wet, lewd sounds pervading the still air of the empty lot. Wooyoung’s fingers scrabbled against the hood, and he had to ball his hands into fists to keep from accidentally scratching the paint off. Wooyoung cried out as San’s cock drove deeper into him, moaning helplessly against his car. 

“Ah—holy shit, San—fuck!” Wooyoung gritted through his teeth, practically sobbing with each thrust. 

“God, you feel fucking amazing,” San laughed breathlessly, grabbing a handful of Wooyoung’s hair and shoving his face against the hood. The car swayed as San pounded into him like his life depended on it. 

Getting ass in the lot of an abandoned mall at 4am was certainly one way to celebrate narrowly avoiding an untimely demise, but San certainly wasn’t complaining. He railed into Wooyoung with rough, sloppy thrusts, struggling not to topple over as the car shook under him. Sweat dripped down his neck, and he belatedly realized he could have taken his shirt off but didn’t. It was a little late for that, he supposed. 

“Fuck, fuck I’m close—” Wooyoung sobbed, his sweaty hands smearing fingerprints all over the shiny black paint job. 

The hand in Wooyoung’s hair tightened, while the other dug marks into his hip, clawing into his side as San fucked him into a new area code. San was close too, his cock twitching as Wooyoung clenched around him, streaks of cum splattering against the hood of the car as he screamed San’s name in the midst of a crude string of profanities. Sweat dripped from San’s hair and onto Wooyoung’s back as he tipped over the edge, his rhythm faltering as he gave a few final thrusts. His hips went still as he came, a wrecked groan tearing its way from his throat as his soul took a quick vacation from his body. 

He collapsed heavily onto his elbows, the cool metal of the hood providing some relief to his sweltering skin. San’s head came to rest against Wooyoung’s shoulder as he recovered, both parties heaving for breath against the poor, defiled vehicle. White streaks of cum stood out lewdly against the black steel, dripping slowly down the slope of the hood. 

“It’s hard to find a carwash open this late, you know,” Wooyoung laughed, his cheek still smashed against the hood. 

“Maybe it’ll rain later,” San mumbled against his skin. Wooyoung gave a little _pfft_ in response. 

San peeled himself off of Wooyoung with an exhausted groan. He had work in like, four hours, technically. Totally worth it. As he buckled his pants, he noticed a cop car enter the far side of the lot. 

“Shit, get up!” he commanded, smacking Wooyoung’s ass to get his attention. 

“Oh fuck,” Wooyoung laughed, quickly shimmying his pants up and grabbing his jacket off the ground. He threw the driver’s side door open and climbed in, and San hopped in after him. The cop drew closer, turning his lights on as he spotted them in the lot. They were trespassing, after all. Red and blue lights flashed as Wooyoung turned the key in the ignition, engine revving loudly as it awakened. 

“Alright, watch and learn,” Wooyoung smirked, shoving his foot down against the accelerator.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> just in case anyone was confused—the only difference between black dragon and red tiger is who you report to—jaehyo and zico respectively. basically red tiger=an elite chaotic inner circle of black dragon. does it even matter? kind of. maybe. don’t worry about it 
> 
> did i have to make it complicated? yes of course lmao. also this chapter is the product of listening to dragula on repeat so there’s that
> 
> anyway thanks for putting up with my bullshit as always + playlist for this fic that goes hard as fuck if you wanna check it out [here!!](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/5eGeySTdOkbL7GnwxifYW7?si=Srtv7kQNSbyvS_ZwvoA6hg)


	13. we don't talk about the scars

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> oh boy. here we go

There was a knock on San’s door. 

San knew it was Yunho before his hand even touched the doorknob. Call it a sixth sense, but he could just somehow tell. They hadn’t spoken for eleven days, which—in their time—was like not speaking for eleven years. San hadn’t the slightest clue what Yunho was planning to say, which made anxiety prickle underneath his skin. 

Normally, he could read Yunho like a book—and vice versa. The fact that Yunho had been able to keep up a poker face that even San couldn’t crack was frankly terrifying, and it made his stomach churn with unease. The fact that Yunho also had a PhD in deciphering San’s emotions made this whole situation a minefield—San was afraid of letting something slip, afraid of Yunho catching him in a lie he couldn’t alibi. Especially now that he’d completely gone off the deep end after killing Byun. 

San was a murderer. Technically speaking, he’d killed a fair number of people before in his line of work, but they didn’t call it murder if you had permission from the government. San didn’t even want to picture the look on Yunho’s face if he were to ever find out. He had really, truly, gone off the deep end. He just hoped it wouldn’t show in his body language. 

San opened the door. Sure enough, Yunho was standing on the porch, his mouth opening and closing a couple times as he settled on what to say. His dark leather jacket glistened with clinging raindrops, and stands of wet hair clung to his face. Yunho didn’t appear to be angry, but San was nervous nonetheless. San felt like a teenager about to be confronted by his parents for hiding cigarettes in his room. If the cigarettes were treason and first degree murder, that is.

“Can I come in?” Yunho asked, his eyes pleading. He shifted his weight between his legs uncertainly.

“Uh—yeah. Sure.” San moved aside to let him in. He didn’t know how to act around Yunho. San didn’t know if he was angry or hurt or what, and he had no idea what to expect. Yunho slipped his jacket off, hanging it on the hook by the door. A few raindrops trickled onto the floor below.

“San,” Yunho said as the door clicked shut, gripping San’s shoulders firmly in his hands. San looked up at him, his expression carefully neutral. At least, he hoped it was. Yunho took a deep breath.

“This whole thing… I don’t know what to do. Not talking to you is killing me. It feels like there’s a hole in my chest when you’re not around, and I just…” Yunho sighed. “You’re my best friend. I miss you, ok? I know I was mad, but the thing is, we’re not kids anymore. You have things you want to keep to yourself, and I just… have to accept it. I’m willing to accept that.”

San didn’t know what to say. He just stared up at Yunho dumbly, who continued to speak, his gaze firmly affixed to San’s.

“You have some things going on that I may not understand, and I want to be there to help you—but if you don’t want me to, then I understand. I trust you. If you say you can handle it, then—then I’ll trust that you can. I’m here for you, if you need it. I want you to know that.” The hands on his shoulders gave a tight squeeze.

This wasn’t the response San was expecting. He expected something a little more along the lines of “you better tell me what the fuck is going on before I take this to the bureau and have your ass arrested for obstruction of justice,” but this was arguably better. 

“Th-thank you,” San said, baffled by the situation. 

Apparently, he was going to take the whole blackmail excuse and run with it, since Yunho had already convinced himself that was the only logical explanation. It was perfect, actually. That way, Yunho would keep it to himself, and San would be off the hook for his strange behavior. 

“I’m—I’m handling it. I’m fine, Yunho. Trust me, ok?” San could see Yunho’s gaze soften as he spoke. 

As far as Yunho was concerned, San was somehow being blackmailed by a hybrid into providing blood and possibly sexual favors, so he was right to be concerned. Yunho was just worried for his best friend, and San felt like a scumbag. San thought about telling him the truth for a moment, but something stopped him. On the off chance that Yunho decided to snap and go after Wooyoung for putting his hands (and fangs) all over San, he decided it was best he kept his silence. 

“I trust you. Listen, I’m really sorry. I shouldn’t have acted the way I did. And, um, about the other thing that happened…” Yunho trailed off, worrying his bottom lip between his teeth. 

It was almost comical that Yunho was the one apologizing to him. It was a little fucked up that Yunho trusted him with his entire heart and soul to the point where he wouldn’t even consider San being a traitor as a possibility, and yet here San was running around abetting crimes behind his back like a sordid turncoat. It was more than a _little_ fucked up. 

“Right, uh. Yeah.” San looked at the floor. On top of all of his sleazy extracurriculars, San had gone and put his mouth on his best friend’s cock the last time he’d been over. What a fucking mess.

“I guess it’s pretty obvious at this point that I think of you as, um—as more than a friend.” Yunho’s touch was light against his shoulders now, brushing gently down his arms as he spoke. 

“Yeah,” San breathed out a laugh, guilt prickling at his insides once again. He felt like he owed it to Yunho to at least give him a chance. “I—How about we, um. Start over?”

“Yeah,” Yunho laughed, looking down sheepishly. His hands fell to San’s waist, smoothing over the stiff fabric of his shirt. San instinctively leaned into his touch, moving closer. Yunho’s eyes fell to his lips.

San felt like two opposing forces were pulling at him from either side, tearing him in half. On one hand, Yunho was his best friend, and he was objectively the best thing for San, if not just for the reason that their relationship wouldn’t be inherently illegal. On the other hand, Wooyoung held San’s dick captive with no bail. If Wooyoung was the devil on his shoulder, pulling him into the darkness, then Yunho was the angel keeping him afloat. Unfortunately, it was too late for angels to save him.

There was one fact that San couldn’t deny—he didn’t really love Yunho. Not in the same way that Yunho loved him. He wanted to, desperately, but forcing it would almost be worse. Worse for him, worse for Yunho. That wasn’t to say he loved Wooyoung, either, but their relationship was… complicated. San didn’t know what Wooyoung was to him anymore. He cared about him, much more than he wanted to—that much was certain, but he couldn’t define it, and he didn’t want to. Those thoughts were locked away in a box somewhere, the key proverbially swallowed.

San’s brain was a mess. He couldn’t tell left from right, up from down, or right from wrong. He wasn’t just an accomplice anymore, an accessory to Wooyoung’s crimes—no, he was a cold blooded murderer. His hands were stained with the blood of his own ally—or, well, about twelve of his allies, if he counted all the other cops he shot. He was facing a millennium in Confinement, give or take. Hypothetically speaking.

The worst part was that he didn’t even feel sorry about killing Agent Byun. Hell, it felt good. Refreshing. The entire Special Operations Division could burn in hell for all he cared. He wasn’t sure when the switch flipped in his mind, exactly, but he’d crossed the line a long time ago, and no metaphorical angel could save him. Not even Yunho. The guilt he thought was on a delayed fuse never ended up coming, after all, and San wasn’t sure whether to be happy about it or scared shitless of himself.

Yunho held San tenderly, blissfully unaware of who he really was. San was already in too deep, so what was one more lie? 

San snaked his hands around Yunho’s neck, pulling him closer. He decided to shut off his emotions, sealing his lips against Yunho’s with all the artificial love he could muster. San wasn’t sure if ‘fake it til you make it’ actually worked for anyone, but it was worth a shot. He was going to hell, that much was certain. 

San fisted his hands into Yunho’s hair, pulling him into a hard kiss, disguising deceit as passion. He overcompensated for his lack of a functioning moral compass by sliding his tongue into Yunho’s mouth and fisting his hands in his shirt, forcing himself to forget his wrongs by melting into Yunho’s familiar warmth. Yunho’s arms wrapped tightly around his waist, pulling their bodies flush against one another. Yunho’s frame was much larger, his hands huge around San’s thin waist, and San had to crane his neck up to kiss him. 

Yunho kissed along San’s jaw, licking over the shell of his ear and down his neck, and San yanked off his tie to give him better access. Yunho placed wet kisses all along his throat, letting his teeth graze over the skin every so often, and San was once again plagued by thoughts of a certain hybrid. 

“We don’t talk about the scars, yeah?” San panted as Yunho worked the buttons of his shirt open. 

“I won’t. Promise.” 

Yunho slid San’s shirt off, letting it fall to the floor, and silently took in the sight of his skin, not uttering a single word about the array of marks and bruises. He traced a thumb over the freshest one, brushing gently over the punctures just above his clavicle. Yunho captured San’s lips with his own again, rougher and needier, impatient fingers hooking into the waistband of his pants and yanking him forward. 

“I’ve wanted you for so long,” Yunho breathed against his lips, eyes flickering over San’s face like he was trying to take in as many of his features as possible. 

“I had no clue you even liked guys,” San laughed softly.

“I don’t, you’re a special case.” Yunho grinned, eyes hooded as he gazed at San affectionately. 

“How long have you… you know.”

“Felt like this?”

“Yeah.”

Yunho gave a sheepish laugh. “Years, I guess. I was so scared of messing up our friendship that I just kept ignoring it. I’m glad I don’t have to anymore.”

He kissed San sweetly, and San felt like a piece of shit for doing this at all. How would Yunho feel if he knew he was kissing a traitor? A literal murderer? And now, on top of everything, he was going to have to feign romantic attraction to him to cover his own ass, and San had a bad feeling about it. 

Oh, well. That could wait for when his dick wasn’t hard.

San put up his best front, jumping up onto Yunho and wrapping his legs around his waist, smiling brightly like the San that Yunho knew. The San that had a sense of morality and justice. The right kind of justice, anyway. That San was long gone, replaced by a horny imposter that only looked like him on the outside. San smiled, a big, phony, liar’s smile. 

“You know where my room is,” he purred against Yunho’s lips.

Yunho smiled back. A real, genuine smile. He hoisted San up and carried him down the hall, laughing as he nearly knocked San’s head against the door frame. San giggled and buried his head into Yunho’s shoulder, trying to channel the old version of himself that knew how to act around his best friend. 

Maybe if they’d done this sooner, he could have prevented San from turning into a monster. San pictured himself in another life, sweetly curled up in bed with Yunho, or wholesomely making breakfast with him in a house they bought together, the sound of eggs frying in a pan as they discussed their cases at work. San would have stayed a good cop, too—a sense of order and integrity keeping him in line. 

He could have had a happy life with Yunho, free of secrets and betrayal, free of lies. Free of Wooyoung.

Somehow, the thought bored him to death. 

Yunho tossed San onto the bed, quickly getting undressed as San did the same. San threw his pants off to the side, and Yunho’s eyes raked over his body, eyelids heavy under his lusty gaze. San watched in anticipation as Yunho slid his underwear off, a generous amount of cock springing free, fully erect. It was beautiful, truly, and San had a hard time tearing his eyes away. It was still strange to see his best friend naked, but that strangeness quickly faded away as his own cock twitched with anticipation.

Yunho caught him looking and smirked, quirking an eyebrow at San. “What?” 

San snapped out of his trance, laughing as he sat up on the edge of the bed. “Sorry. Just not used to it yet,” he said, fisting his hand around the shaft, giving it an experimental pump. He kind of wished he’d slept with Yunho sooner, if this is what he’d been missing out on.

“ _Yet,_ huh?” Yunho teased, biting his lip as San began stroking his cock. 

“Shut up.” 

San’s mouth pulled up into a grin, and he swiped his tongue over the head of Yunho’s cock. He circled it a few times, looking up at Yunho with mischievous eyes. 

San was starting to worry that he might actually have a sex addiction, given how his body was so quick to respond to the sound of Yunho moaning above him. He wasn’t even touch starved this time, so he didn’t have a good excuse for why he was doing this. He was just a shitty cop, a shitty friend, and just an all around shitty person. Oh well, at least Yunho would benefit from it. Sexually, at least.

San wrapped his lips around Yunho’s cock, sucking the tip lightly before taking more into his mouth. He pumped his hand around what he couldn’t fit, pressing his tongue against the underside of the shaft as he bobbed his head. 

“Fuck,” Yunho cursed, a breathy laugh escaping his lips. 

“What’s so funny?” San said after pulling off, jerking Yunho’s cock steadily as he looked up. 

“Nothing. You’re just hot.” Yunho stroked San’s hair, brushing a few strands out of his eyes. It was too affectionate for San’s liking, but he said nothing, opting to wrap his lips around Yunho’s cock once more. Yunho moaned as San took in as much as he could, fingers tightening in his hair, egging him on to take more. San followed his lead, letting it sink farther into his throat until he couldn’t take any more. 

San pulled off a few moments later, lips swollen and glossy from his efforts. Yunho pushed him backwards, flatting him against the bed as he crawled on top. He kissed San messily, hands wandering all over his body like they were on some kind of time limit, like the world might very well end if he didn’t touch San in every way he possibly could. 

San moaned as Yunho pressed their hips together, grinding with a friction that left him wanting more. He raked his nails down Yunho’s neck, sucking his tongue as he canted his hips up, begging without words. Yunho pushed his legs apart, settling between them as he pumped San’s cock eagerly in his hand, licking every moan straight from his mouth. 

“Can I…” Yunho trailed off, but San knew what he meant. 

“Yeah—please,” San panted. He flailed a hand around until he felt his fingers bump his nightstand, rummaging around inside the drawer until he found what he needed. “Here,” he said, tossing it to Yunho. 

Yunho looked slightly nervous as he uncapped the lube, squeezing a couple drops onto his fingers and rubbing them together apprehensively. “I’ve never done this with a dude,” he admitted. 

“It’s not all that different from doing it with a girl, honestly.” San shrugged. 

Yunho laughed, sliding his hand between San’s legs, hovering over him with a beaming smile. “I always forget you’ve slept with girls before.” 

San kicked him lightly. “I got pussy in high school, remember?” 

“Yeah, yeah.” Yunho rolled his eyes sarcastically, but the smile never left his face. San cupped Yunho’s face as he leaned down to kiss him, giving a soft exhale as Yunho gently pressed a finger in. He let it slide all the way in, then slowly dragged it back out, forming a gentle rhythm. Everything about him was huge, including his fingers, and San could easily feel the difference in size compared to his own. Or Wooyoung’s. No—not Wooyoung’s. _Stop thinking about Wooyoung._

“Fuck,” San breathed, quickly becoming impatient with the excruciatingly slow pace of Yunho’s fingers.

“Good?” 

“Yeah. You don’t need to be so gentle about it,” he whined, earning a sheepish laugh from Yunho. 

Yunho kissed him again, adding another finger, a shaky moan escaping San’s lips. Yunho stretched his fingers apart, moving them in and out with more intent. San bit his lip, his back arching off the bed as Yunho twisted his fingers just right. “Fuck, Yunho. Yeah, do that again,” he panted, fisting his hands in Yunho’s hair. 

Yunho repeated the motion, twisting and crooking his fingers until San cried out, his head falling back against the pillow. San squirmed against him, tugging at Yunho’s hair as his motions grew faster and more confident. Yunho kept at it, unrelenting, pounding with his fingers until San was reduced to a writhing mess beneath him. “Ah—fuck, just like that,” he moaned, grinding down onto Yunho’s fingers, forcing them deeper. 

“Can’t wait to feel you on my cock,” Yunho growled against his ear, catching San by surprise. It was definitely a shock to hear such filthy words from him, considering he was usually the human equivalent of a golden retriever. Not that it wasn’t a nice change. It was also a little strange to hear it from his best friend, but then again, it was also strange for his best friend to be fingering his ass, but whatever. 

“Then fuck me,” San forced through his teeth, meeting Yunho’s dark gaze like it was a dare. He kissed Yunho sloppily, dragging his teeth along his lower lip and pulling, and Yunho groaned into his mouth. San wasn’t in the mood to think about anything other than his best friend’s cock. Everything else could wait, especially things that could be considered morally reprehensible. He would deal with the consequences later. 

Yunho pulled his fingers out, mouthing along San’s throat as he fumbled around the bed for the bottle. He flicked it open, sitting back on his knees as he slicked his cock with lube, staring down at San hungrily. He tossed it aside and pushed San’s knees farther apart, cock sliding between his legs as he settled in, the tip brushing eagerly against his ass. San bit his lip as he felt the slick head of Yunho’s cock brush against his entrance.

Yunho pushed in slowly, easing in a little at a time. San groaned as his body adjusted, Yunho’s cock stretching him out, filling him to the brink. He’d expected it to be worse, honestly. Yunho’s dick was massive, but he’d fingered him with such thorough enthusiasm that San was already craving more. San fisted his hands in the sheets, moaning shakily as Yunho’s cock bottomed out, feeling impossibly deep inside of him.

“Fuck, you feel amazing,” Yunho laughed breathlessly, fingernails digging into San’s thighs as he pushed them forward. San had a flashback to when he’d said the same thing to Wooyoung while fucking him on the hood of his Audi, but quickly shooed it away. Now wasn’t the time.

Yunho gave a few shallow thrusts, followed by one deep one, testing San’s reactions, and San’s eyes involuntarily rolled back a little. Yunho gave another slow, deep thrust, and San grabbed his shoulders, digging his nails into Yunho’s skin until they left crescents. 

“Holy fuck, Yunho,” San panted, and Yunho took it as encouragement to thrust harder. He pulled nearly all the way out, then pushed back in, rocking into San more deliberately. San cried out, sinking his teeth into his bottom lip as Yunho’s cock slammed into him, the sound of skin slapping against skin and rough breathing pervading the room.

Yunho set a hard pace, hips moving faster with each pathetic sound San let free. San kept his arms wrapped around his neck for dear life, spitting profanities through his teeth each time Yunho fucked into him. Each thrust was punctuated with a sharp, uneven breath, like Yunho was trying to hold himself back from completely losing it. His teeth were clenched, bared in a hungry scowl as he gazed down at San like he wanted to devour him.

“I knew you’d look good around my cock,” Yunho gritted, pinning San’s wrists against the sheets. San definitely hadn’t expected this from him, but he wasn’t complaining. He didn’t feel so bad about being a traitor anymore—not while his best friend was fucking him into next week. He could get used to it, certainly. Cohesive thoughts flew out of his head one by one with each slam of Yunho’s hips, leaving him in a state of mindless, empty bliss.

It was almost hot, in a messed up way. A cop fucking a killer, totally in the dark. Is that why Wooyoung got such a rise out of fucking San? Well, that was a little different, since San knew Wooyoung was a murderer the entire time, whatever that said about San and his tastes. Probably that he needed therapy at the very least, but whatever. San knew his kinks weren’t exactly normal. Ok, he really needed to stop thinking about Wooyoung.

“Fuck, yeah, so fucking pretty,” Yunho growled, his face inches from San’s. “You like taking my cock?”

“Ah, fuck—Yunho,” San cried, his wrists flexing against Yunho’s hold, writhing against the bed as Yunho railed into him, brutal pace faltering as he grew closer to the edge. San was close too, his endless stream of profanities becoming more intelligible with each hard thrust. 

“Say it—you like my cock? You like it when I fuck you?” he spat, pounding into San until the bed shook and the headboard smacked against the wall.

“Y-yes, oh, fuck—“ San could barely speak, like all the air had been fucked right out of his lungs.

“God, you’re so fucking hot. Can’t wait to see you cum for me,” Yunho gritted through his teeth. 

San was frankly a little blindsided by Yunho’s sudden change, like he was a completely different person from the one who’d knocked on his door with sad puppy eyes. It would have been frightening if not for the fact that San’s mind was incapacitated, filled only with thoughts of Yunho fucking him over the edge.

“Ah—Yunho—“

Yunho brought a hand down to stroke San’s cock, and San’s back arched off the bed, mouth falling open as ragged moans tore freely from his throat. With his other hand, Yunho laced their fingers together, and San nearly choked on his spit. The intimate gesture caught him way off guard, but he felt himself caring less the closer he got to the edge. Just another consequence he would have to deal with later. 

It only took a few more thrusts for San to reach his limit, and his mind went totally blank, brain turning to jell-o as he came, thick lines of white landing messily all over his chest with a cry of Yunho’s name. Yunho cursed loudly, thrusting hard and unevenly as he squeezed San’s hand in his own. His hips went still, groaning as he came, and after a few breathless moments he collapsed on the bed next to San. 

San sprawled out next to him, throat dry and chest heaving, skin coated in a disgusting mix of sweat and cum. His mind wasn’t equipped to think thoughts just yet, which was probably for the best, because whatever shred left of his conscience would have been cussing him out. Having a conscience was inconvenient, so he tried his best to get rid of it. It seemed to be working, in some regards more than others. 

“Holy shit,” Yunho panted, looking over at San in an equally disheveled state. 

“How was it? You officially gay now?” San asked after a long moment of catching his breath. 

“Hell yeah, that was awesome,” Yunho grinned, turning over onto his side to toss an arm over San’s chest. It landed in a glob of cum, and he immediately flinched away, grimacing at his tainted arm. San snickered, and Yunho smeared it against San’s stomach, his laugh turning into a scream of protest. 

San wiggled away as Yunho continued trying to wipe cum on him, and Yunho giggled maniacally, pulling San into a bear hug to keep him from escaping. They wrestled for a minute, eventually ending with San giving up and succumbing to Yunho’s embrace, breathless with laughter in his arms. 

For a moment, he felt like they were kids again, like Yunho was over for a sleepover at his house, his parents downstairs watching a movie while they laid in bed eating gummy worms and arguing about who kicked whose ass in Call of Duty. Yunho would kick him in the shin and call him a shithead, and San would reciprocate by poking him in the ribs and snatching the bag of gummy worms from his hand, shoving it underneath his ass so that they’d be all warm and squished, effectively claiming them as his own. 

They used to be evenly matched when they roughhoused, basically the same height until they were fifteen or so. Then Yunho grew like twelve feet out of nowhere, leaving San in his dust, forced to crane his neck up bitterly just to make eye contact. San wasn’t even short by average standards, but Yunho never missed an opportunity to rub it in his face with a cheeky grin. San always said he’d catch up to him eventually, but it never quite happened. 

San laid in his arms, feeling smaller than ever, squished against his sweaty chest as Yunho trapped him in a tight bear hug. Their laughter died down into soft, quiet breaths, wrapped in each other’s warmth against the cool air of San’s bedroom. Yunho traced a hand along San’s back, drawing shapes into his skin, and a contented shiver ran down his spine. 

He probably could have fallen asleep like that, eventually, but with the way his tangled thoughts were slowly filling his mind again, sleep didn’t seem like much of an option. San felt guilt twisting inside of him like a sickness, burning in his throat like bile. Yunho was his best friend—no, more than that. Yunho loved him. At least, he loved the San he thought he was holding in his arms. 

San felt like an imposter. He was almost certain he could have loved Yunho back if things were different. If he’d known how Yunho felt before meeting Wooyoung, maybe he could have prevented San from turning into whatever fucked up version of himself this was. He knew in his heart he should love Yunho, so why couldn’t he?

And now, here he was, having sex with him, but he felt empty inside. He’d kissed him, he’d fucked him, and Yunho had even held his hand, lacing their fingers while he came, their bodies tangled together more intimately than ever—still nothing. He felt nothing. Like an imposter, wearing San’s skin, walking around in his body but feeling all of the wrong emotions. 

He would give anything to love Yunho back, but the puzzle pieces just didn’t fit. 

San laid in Yunho’s arms, feeling his steady heartbeat and the rise and fall of his chest. Despite everything San felt—or didn’t feel—he knew he was safe in Yunho's arms. Yunho had always been there for him, and he still was, even if San didn’t deserve it. San tried to pretend they were kids again, carefree and happy in each other’s arms, like nothing mattered except who was guilty of stealing the blanket or whose feet were stinkier. All it did was make his chest ache. 

“Hey,” Yunho eventually murmured against his neck. “You know I’m here for you, right?” His fingers continued tracing little squiggles onto San’s skin. 

“I know.” San’s heart gave a painful squeeze in his chest. 

“I care about you. I really, really, _really_ do. More than anything.”

“I know,” San whispered, and his voice broke. 

“Hey, what’s wrong?” Yunho asked, pulling back enough to look at San’s face.

San couldn’t respond. He didn’t want to look him in the eye. He buried his head under Yunho’s chin, hiding in shame as his throat clenched painfully, his chest aching like it was being crushed underneath a truck tire. Yunho squeezed his arms around him, pulling San into his chest, his forehead pressed against the warmth over his beating heart. 

Tears spilled down his cheeks, and his shoulders began to shake pitifully as he began sobbing into Yunho’s chest. Yunho pulled him in tighter, hugging his arms around him silently, gently rubbing San’s back as he wept. San didn’t know what he was doing, or who he even was, but there was one thing he was certain of, which was that he didn’t deserve Yunho. 

He cried into his best friend’s arms for god knows how long, until his head throbbed and the pillow was soaked beneath his head.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sike haha it was an entire chapter of yunsan whoops... sorry my hand slipped idk what happened
> 
> tumblr @ yungwooyoung
> 
> playlist for this fic that goes hard as fuck if you wanna check it out [here!!](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/5eGeySTdOkbL7GnwxifYW7?si=Srtv7kQNSbyvS_ZwvoA6hg)


	14. a horrible mistake

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> happy hongjoong day!!

The door clicked open, then came an indignant scream.

“Oh my god—seriously? Ugh, fuck you guys!” Yeosang shielded his eyes with a grimace. 

Wooyoung’s shrieking laughter filled the room as he collapsed on top of San on the couch. San’s dick slid out of Wooyoung’s ass as he toppled forward with laughter, and San shot up as he heard Yeosang come through the door, the movement shifting Wooyoung’s weight in such a way that it dumped him straight onto the floor. Wooyoung grabbed San's arm in an attempt to hold on, but it ended with him dragging San right off the couch. 

“Ow, fuck!” San exclaimed, landing straight on top of Wooyoung in a pile of sweaty, naked limbs. Wooyoung was laughing his ass off, an arm thrown over his face and tears prickling at the corners of his eyes. San crushed Wooyoung underneath his body, smacking his hand against the floor to punctuate his howling laughter. 

“Does he have to be here every time I need to talk to you?” Yeosang huffed, exasperated, his voice flat with irritation. 

“You—you could knock, Yeosangie,” Wooyoung panted between cackles. 

“You knew I was coming over! Ugh, whatever, I’m gonna go to the bar and drink away what I just saw,” Yeosang huffed angrily and slammed the door.

San propped himself up on his elbows on either side of Wooyoung’s head, trying to catch his breath, but the laughter just kept coming. Their little collision had effectively killed the mood, with San’s dick sadly going soft between his legs. His balls kinda hurt, too, from the way he’d landed. 

“Well, shit. That kinda killed it,” Wooyoung grinned, echoing San’s own thoughts. 

“You didn’t say Yeosang was coming over,” San whined. 

“He was early! It was his own damn fault!” Wooyoung wiped tears from the corners of his eyes, chest heaving residually from his fit of laughter. He had a huge grin plastered across his face, pointed fangs and rows of white teeth showcased between soft lips. 

It wasn’t often that he heard this kind of laughter from Wooyoung. San heard him laugh, of course—often at San’s expense, that dick—but not this crying, gasping-for-breath, genuine kind of laughter. Wooyoung had the type of laugh that made San want to laugh with him, high pitched and ridiculous, not at all sounding like something that should come from his hardassed, cold blooded image. 

Despite the fangs and the pale skin, San could see a regular person in him. A human, just like San. Wooyoung’s skin was warm and his eyes were a deep brown, not red like a real vampire’s. San pictured what Wooyoung would be like if he wasn’t a hybrid—smiling and laughing under the rays of the daylight sun, a cup of coffee in his hand from a local cafe, just a regular person living a regular life—and San felt an odd pang of sadness. San’s smile faded away from his face as he remembered the boy from the video, eyes dull and lifeless as he wasted away. 

The boy from the video with skin as frail as paper and bones that jutted out in harsh ridges, empty eyes staring at nothing as he begged for death. The boy from the video who screamed and cried in agony as scientists used his body as a tool for their experiments, their ears deaf with apathy. The boy who hid a mirror shard in his mouth and used it to cut his own wrists to end his suffering, tears streaming down his face as he bled out onto the floor. 

San had a hard time believing that the boy from the video was the same Wooyoung that was right in front of him. The Wooyoung he knew was vibrant and playful, always quick with a flirty jibe or caustic sarcasm. His eyes were bright and vivacious, never dull, though they sometimes festered with a ferocious contempt, recalcitrant toward those who’d wronged him. San would catch a glimpse of it every now and then, when his eyes would go cold, detached. 

San imagined Wooyoung in alternate reality where he’d never become a hybrid. He was a chef, with tanned skin visible underneath rolled up shirt sleeves as he tossed something in a skillet, grinning and wiping sweat from his brow as hot licks of flame consumed the pan. He’d bark out commands to the others in the kitchen, expertly keeping up with the flow of orders as excited customers flooded into his restaurant. He’d taste the food and smile once he was satisfied, his mouth free of fangs and his body one that ran on human sustenance.

And San wouldn’t be there, because he’d have no reason to be. The only reason he met Wooyoung was because he was trying to arrest him—for being something he never wanted to be. Arrest him for using whatever means necessary to survive in this cruel, corrupt, fucked up world. In a perfect one, Wooyoung would be living his human dreams, cooking human food in his restaurant for human patrons… without San. He wasn’t sure why, but his heart gave a painful squeeze. 

“What?” Wooyoung asked suddenly. “You’re looking at me weird.”

“Huh?” San snapped back to reality, blinking a few times. 

“Why are you looking at me like that?” Wooyoung’s brow was quirked in confusion as he awaited an answer. 

“I, uh—” San started, but didn’t quite know what to say. He sighed, taking in Wooyoung’s features from their close proximity, eyes lingering on the little dot on his cheek under his left eye. San often found himself drawn to it, like it was a small reminder that Wooyoung was still human just like San. A human who, at one point, suffered so much he wanted to end it all, a fact that did strange things to San’s heart. Strange, painful things. 

“You never told me you tried committing suicide,” San murmered, ruefully meeting Wooyoung’s gaze. 

Wooyoung’s eyes went wide, his lips parted in surprise. “How—how do you know about that?” He demanded quietly, eyebrows pinched together in confusion. He had a strange look in his eye that San couldn’t place. 

“I…saw your tapes in the archive,” San confessed. 

There was a pause where neither knew what to say. Wooyoung laughed eventually, a humorless little puff of air. “Yeah, I did.” 

“Why?” San knew it was a dumb question the moment he asked, but he asked anyway, since no other words would come to him. 

“I couldn’t do it anymore,” Wooyoung whispered, gaze becoming distant as he recalled the memory. “I just… couldn’t. You saw what they did.” His voice was stiff, like it hurt to say. 

“Yeah,” San breathed. _I wish I didn’t,_ he thought to himself. San didn’t know what he’d hoped to gain by bringing it up, but he figured he’d at least come clean. It was an incredibly invasive thing to do, and Wooyoung had deliberately chosen not to tell him about it sooner. “Sorry,” San breathed. “I shouldn’t have done that.” 

“It’s fine. It doesn’t change anything. I just…” Wooyoung gave another humorless laugh. “I can’t help but wish I’d been successful, you know?” He laced his fingers behind San’s neck as he spoke, his words just a faint whisper. “I decided I would use this new life to get revenge and slaughter everyone who was involved, that’s why I kept pressing on, but I just—” He sighed. “I wish I’d died that day. I wouldn’t have to live like this.” He gave a sad smile at the end of his thought.

San was silent for a few beats. Hearing Wooyoung admit he wished he was dead made San feel upset in ways he couldn’t explain, and it hurt like a knife through his chest. Without saying anything, San turned his head and placed slow, gentle kisses on the inside of each of Wooyoung’s wrists. Wooyoung’s eyes widened, his lips falling open as he watched. 

“I’m glad you’re still alive,” San breathed, meeting Wooyoung’s gaze again. He kept Wooyoung’s wrists in his hands, brushing his thumbs softly over the places where the mirror had cut. Wooyoung looked lost for words, staring up at San with an expression he’d never never seen before. His lips opened and closed a few times, contemplating what to say with a puzzled frown. 

“Why?” Wooyoung breathed, his tone one of astoundment. 

It wasn’t something San had ever thought about before. He had thought about the alternate reality where Wooyoung was happy and consequently San-free, and it made his chest feel tight. Like a puppy sitting outside in the rain, watching his humans through the window, unable to enter. Why was San glad he met Wooyoung? It was a good question, honestly. Wooyoung had been the root of a lot of his bad decisions lately, and yet… 

“You’re… fun,” San answered. It wasn’t the most articulate thing to say, but San didn’t know exactly what it was he was trying to articulate. 

“Pfft. Thanks, I guess. You too.” Wooyoung rolled his eyes. 

“No, seriously. And you’re probably the most interesting person I know,” San insisted.

Wooyoung raised his eyebrows. “You don’t even know anything about me,” he scoffed, but his tone didn’t carry a bite. 

“Hmm…” San hummed as he thought, resting his cheek in his hand. “I know you wanted to be a chef. And you like Fast and Furious.” 

Wooyoung laughed, eyes scrunching into crescents, and San’s heart did a little flip. “Ah, yes. The important things.” 

“Ok, tell me something, then.” 

“Like what?”

“I don’t know. Hobbies?”

“Getting laid, apparently,” Wooyoung gave a cheeky grin. 

“No, like, actual hobbies. Like… well, mine was taekwondo before it kinda became part of my job. I’m a sixth degree black belt,” San boasted.

“Somehow I’m not surprised. Mm, I used to be good at singing, I guess. But it’s been a while. Cooking, too, but I don’t really eat anymore,” Wooyoung shrugged.

“Ooh, serenade me.”

“Fuck off.”

“Fine. Ok, what were you like as a kid?” San wondered.

Wooyoung gave a soft sigh, clicking his tongue as he thought. “Ok, well, I was obsessed with the idea of becoming a soldier. Pretty ironic now, right? I joined the army the second I turned eighteen. I wanted to get out of the house as soon as possible. My parents, um. Well, they weren’t too happy when I came out.” Wooyoung gave a tight smile. 

“Oh, I see. Are they still...” San trailed off. 

“Yeah, they’re still out there somewhere. They probably think I’m dead. Not that I give a shit, after they basically disowned me.” Woyoung sighed. “How did yours react?” 

“They, um—didn’t. They died before I could tell them.” 

“Oh.” Wooyoung’s gaze flickered across San’s face. “Sorry, I shouldn’t have—“

“No, it’s ok.” It was silent for a few beats. San didn’t know what to say. 

“Can—can I ask, how did they...” Wooyoung started, tiptoeing around the final word. 

The last thing he wanted from anyone was their pity, so he usually did what he could to avoid the topic. San hated the way people looked at him like a kicked puppy after finding out he lost his parents, and it made his stomach churn with disdain. Suddenly he wasn’t _San_ anymore—he was a sad, pathetic orphan. Luckily, San knew Wooyoung well enough to know he wasn’t exactly the pitying type. 

San inhaled a breath as he recalled the memory. “It was a terrorist bombing. They were both nurses in the hospital that was attacked. I was in high school at the time.” The words felt strange on his tongue, since he so rarely discussed it with anyone. 

Wooyoung nodded slowly. Not pitying, just understanding. “Is that why you wanted to become a cop?” 

San gave a soft smile. “Nah, I already wanted to be one. Then it became more of a revenge thing, I guess. As it turns out, being a cop isn’t all it’s cracked up to be.” 

“No kidding.” There was a pause, then Wooyoung bit his lip, studying San’s face as he frowned pensively, like he was mulling something over in his head. “Hey, I, uh…” he trailed off.

“Hm?” 

“I want to show you something,” Wooyoung declared somewhat hesitantly. 

“Show me… what?” San’s brows furrowed. 

“Get up,” Wooyoung instructed, pushing on San’s chest to get him off. 

“Huh? Where are we going?” Puzzled, San rolled off of Wooyoung and begrudgingly hauled himself up off the floor. 

“To the lab.”

Did he say… a _lab?_

“So, that means the Hotel Ruby is…” 

“Just a front,” Wooyoung finished. “Recently, at least. This section of the basement was renovated after Yeonjun bought the place.”

San followed Wooyoung down to the basement of the Ruby. The first below-ground level held the laundry room, offices, employee lockers, etcetera, but few people ventured below to the second basement level. The staircase opened up to an empty hallway, quiet save for the echo of their footsteps against the concrete floor, and the faint whistling from the tangle of exposed pipes overhead. The air grew colder the deeper they ventured, and San shivered. 

“He bought an entire hotel so he could stick a lab in the basement?” San asked, baffled. From where he stood, nothing exactly stuck out as being suspicious. Just a bland, empty hall. 

“Pretty much, yeah. He came from a super wealthy family. He ended up becoming a nuclear chemist on a Navy submarine after giving up his job in a research lab. Blah, blah, he ended up becoming a hybrid, obviously. Sank his submarine with everyone in it and made a break for it. We crossed paths not too long after, and that’s when we came up with the idea,” Wooyoung explained, halting in front of a plain looking door at the end of the hall. 

“What idea?”

“The idea to create V2,” Wooyoung revealed, unlocking the door with an electronic key fob. It swung open, and San’s jaw dropped to the floor. 

San felt like he’d just stepped onto the Nostromo. Bright, fluorescent lights came on as soon as they walked in, revealing an impressive display of bulky machines, computers, microscopes, hood vents, gas tanks, tubes, valves, you name it. Lab coats and goggles hung off a rack by the door, and San chuckled at the idea of a hybrid being so keen on personal protective equipment. Force of habit, maybe. It was all so intimidatingly high-tech that San could practically feel his IQ lowering just by being there. He was afraid to touch anything. 

“Holy shit,” San breathed in awe, looking around at all of the crisp, perfectly white equipment and polished desks. If his college biology textbook had cost nearly an arm and a leg, San could only imagine the fortune Yeonjun must have shelled out on all this crap. San didn’t recognize what any of the machines were for, but the computers alone must have cost several grand, at least. Yeah, _computers._ Plural. 

“Right? I always thought it was a little overkill, but whatever. Yeonjun is very particular about all of his geek shit,” Wooyoung noted, eyes jumping around the room. 

“Wait, backtrack for a second. _You guys_ made V2?” San asked in shock. “I thought you were trying to wipe it off the face of the earth?”

Wooyoung let out a heavy sigh. “We are, but we were also the ones responsible for creating it. Well, it was my idea, but Yeonjun did most of the heavy lifting. I’m not good with all that science shit. I took care of the other stuff.” 

“What other stuff?” San was still trying to process the fact that there was a secret lab in the basement of the Ruby that was straight out of fucking Alien, and he kept looking around skeptically like a Xenomorph was going to crawl out from one of the hood vents. On top of that, Wooyoung was partially responsible for creating a version of the sol that could work on hybrids and consequently bring major destruction upon the world? Weirder things have happened, he supposed. 

“Gathering volunteers to become test subjects, distributing product, things like that. The business end. It was only recently we pulled the plug on it,” Wooyoung explained. “You better keep your mouth shut about this, by the way. Unless you want Yeosang ripping your head right off your shoulders.” 

“I’d like to keep it attached, thanks. So—wait, why pull the plug if you’re the ones who made it?” San leaned against the table in the center of the room, figuring it looked safe enough to touch. 

“I better start from the beginning.” Wooyoung gave another deep sigh, running a hand through his hair in contemplation. He hopped up onto the table next to San, his legs dangling a few inches off the floor. “Ok, starting from the tapes. It’s pretty obvious what happened next—I was made into a hybrid for the researchers to save face, but the facility wasn’t properly prepared since it was so short notice. That’s what I’m guessing in retrospect, anyway. After I was able to escape, I ran and ran. I hid in an alley somewhere in the city, covered in the blood of the nurse I drained, and that’s how Yeosang was able to smell me.” 

“Makes sense,” San nodded. 

“Right, so I lived with him after that. Helped him steal cases of sol from military hospitals and the like, then built up a clientele by selling it. Then Yeonjun came into the picture. He thought I was batshit crazy when I pitched the idea for sol that would work on us. Back then, I _was_ a little batshit crazy. Day in and day out, all I thought about was revenge. Ways I could kill every fucking scientist and army scumbag I could get my hands on. My dream was to catalyze an uprising—band together every surviving hybrid we could find and destroy the military. Burn it to the fucking ground.” Wooyoung gazed off distantly as he spoke, like a jaded old war vet recalling tales from his long lost childhood. 

San swallowed. The idea of dozens, if not hundreds of angry, doped-up hybrids swarming every armed government facility in the country was certainly terrifying. San remembered the fight with R, and how it took two hybrids and a sol-drugged agent to bring him down, and even then just barely. If Wooyoung hadn’t taken V2 at the last minute, they surely would have been fucked. Imagining that multiplied by god knows how many was practically a living nightmare. 

“Eventually I got Yeonjun on board with it. He bought out the Ruby and made it our home base, then spent the next seven or so years perfecting the V2 formula while I made a name for myself in the black market. Finally, _finally_ we had a breakthrough, but things, uh… things started to get a little complicated.” Wooyoung absently ran the tip of his tongue over a fang. 

“Complicated?” San frowned. 

“Mhm. Remember R?”

Boy, did he. “Unfortunately.”

“R was one of our volunteer test subjects. He was all-in when it came to the idea of taking down the government, but he took things way too far. He didn’t want to stop at taking down the researchers and the army dogs, but their families as well. Anyone who associated with them, no matter if they were innocent. It went beyond revenge into something else entirely. That’s when Yeonjun and I had to reevaluate our entire operation. We came to the conclusion that it was too dangerous, and that we made a horrible mistake,” Wooyoung laughed regretfully, shaking his head. 

“That explains why R wanted you dead,” San mused. 

“Yep. He was pissed when we scrapped the project. He found out Yeonjun was the brains of the operation and planned on keeping him hostage, forced to create new batches of V2, basically carrying out my original dream and then some. People like him can’t be trusted with that kind of power.” Wooyoung’s voice was full of disdain, his jaw clenched at the recollection of R’s power conquest. 

“I’m glad I killed him, then,” San remarked. 

“Me too. I know he’s dead and all, but there’s something about it that just—” Wooyoung sighed, shaking his dead dismissively. “Something doesn’t feel right. Something’s gnawing at me, and I just can’t put my finger on it.” Wooyoung caught San looking over at him with a concerned frown and quickly backtracked. “Forget it, I’m probably just being paranoid.” 

“Is it… is it ok for you to be telling me all this?” San wondered aloud. Yeosang had tried to kill him for merely knowing V2 existed, and Yeonjun had been pretty keen on the idea of killing San as well. San didn’t want a bunch of angry hybrids coming after him.

Wooyoung snorted. “Hah, of course it isn’t. I’m a dead man if Yeonjun ever finds out. He’s scary when he’s mad.”

“What happened to keeping it a secret?”

“It is a secret. But, at the same time…” Wooyoung was smiling, but his eyes remained sorrowful. “I wanted to show you the lab before it’s gone.”

“Gone? What do you mean?” San’s eyebrows pinched in confusion. 

“Yeonjun was kidnapped, and Yeosang and I were nearly killed because of all this. It’s just not worth it. Yeonjun fled the country for a while, and he left me in charge of…” Wooyoung bit his lip, his features hardening into a conflicted frown. 

“In charge of… what?” San prompted. 

Wooyoung sighed. He’d been doing that a lot today. “There are two bombs in this room. There—” he pointed to the wall on the far side of the lab, then pointed his finger in the opposite direction, “—and there.” 

San’s eyes went wide. “Did—did you just say _bombs?_ ”

Wooyoung gave a solemn nod. “Everything has to go. We have to erase every trace of the lab's existence. I’m in charge of detonating it. I promised him I would, but…” 

“S-so you’re gonna blow up the Ruby?” San squawked, staring at Wooyoung in horror. 

“The Ruby should be fine. The bombs are small enough that they should only ignite what’s in this room. The alarms will go off and everyone will evacuate. By the time firefighters get here, the lab will be toast, but they should be able to contain it before it does too much damage elsewhere,” Wooyoung assured. 

“When were you planning on doing it, then?” San asked. 

“That’s the thing. I promised Yeonjun I would do it after he left, but… I don’t know. It’s sad, you know? We spent years of our lives holed up down here, so seeing it all go up in flames is… ah, maybe I’m just being dramatic,” Wooyoung laughed. “The plan is to blow everything up, take Val, then make a break for it, but I guess I keep putting it off.”

“Where will you go?” San felt a twinge of sadness at the thought of Wooyoung leaving for good. It seemed like nowadays San spent more time at the Ruby than his own apartment, and to think of leaving it behind made his heart clench.

“Wherever I want, I suppose,” Wooyoung shrugged, gazing distantly across the room. 

“Then… what’s stopping you?” San asked quietly. 

San didn’t want Wooyoung to leave. It might make his life easier in other ways, like the whole Yunho situation, but it made his chest feel tight to even think about. Strange as it may be, Wooyoung was a source of stability in his turbulent life. Wooyoung was someone he didn’t have to hide from or keep secrets from, or constantly lie to. Wooyoung’s hotel room was an escape, somewhere he could run when didn’t feel like keeping up his mask. 

It hurt to admit that San might actually… _miss_ him. 

Wooyoung looked over at San, his expression softening, a slight smile tugging at the corners of his lips. “I guess I’m not ready to leave quite yet.”

Water lapped at San’s feet, first trickling beneath the soles of his shoes, then rising up above his toes and sloshing around his ankles. It was cold, stinging his skin like daggers as his soaked jeans clung to his shins. He tried to lift his feet, but they were glued to the floor. He looked around wildly for help, his heart rate increasing as the water crept up his legs. 

Zico’s bar was empty, save for two others sitting around the table with San. One of them was Agent Byun, who stared pensively at his hand of cards, tongue poking out from between his lips in concentration. On the other side sat Yunho, who turned and gave San a warm smile. Neither of them seemed particularly concerned about the room slowly flooding. 

“We have to get out of here!” San cried, thrashing in his chair, but his feet remained cemented to the floor. Panic set in as the water lapped at his thighs, slowly working its way up to his waist. 

“Why? We just started!” Agent Byun objected, turning to Yunho. “Got any fours, Jeong?”

“Hmm… go fish,” Yunho replied. Byun took a card from the deck. 

“Alright, San, any eights?” Yunho asked, gesturing his head toward the cards in San’s hands.

“What? No, the room, it’s—” 

“No eights? Darn,” Yunho clicked his tongue, grabbing a card from the deck. 

“Listen to me! The room—it—” San gave another futile thrash. 

The water was up to San’s chest now, and steadily rising. His heart was pounding, yet his body wouldn’t budge. 

“Your turn, Choi,” Agent Byun announced. “You’re the one who wanted to play, after all.”

“N-no, wait, I—” San shivered as the icy water soaked his clothes, his shirt clinging to his body and his feet going numb. He was paralyzed, the water creeping ever higher, and yet the two across from him remained unbothered. “Can’t you see we’re drowning?” San shouted, veins coursing with terror. 

“Are you ok, San?” Yunho asked, eyebrows pinched in concern. “Your teeth are falling out.”

“Wh—” San stuttered, just as one of his teeth fell into the water with a soft _plop._ Then another, and another. One by one, his teeth fell into the water, which now swirled up to his chin and lapped at his nose. Red neon lights danced in the water’s reflection like flames, and an ace of spades floated past his head as everything went black.

San awoke with a start, drenched in sweat and chest heaving. He shivered against the chill that enveloped his entire body, seemingly left over from his nightmare. The clock on his nightstand told him it was 6:58am, just two minutes from when his alarm would go off. San sat on the edge of his bed, brushing his fingers through his sweaty hair as he slowly came back to reality. 

_What the hell was that about?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> there’s just something so mmf about chemist yeonjun i have no idea why. anyway yea that was a fun little exposition dump wee. just a few more chapters before things go apeshit so get ready lmao
> 
> tumblr @ yungwooyoung
> 
> playlist for this fic that goes hard as fuck if you wanna check it out [here!!](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/5eGeySTdOkbL7GnwxifYW7?si=Srtv7kQNSbyvS_ZwvoA6hg)


	15. total eclipse of the heart

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> look at all these frequent updates holy moly

San looked out over the sea of black clothes and solemn expressions. Some people cried wordlessly, tears streaming down their mournful faces, while others stared blankly forward. The chapel was quiet save for intermittent sniffles and soft titterings from the crowd. Someone stepped up to the podium—Agent Park Chanyeol. He gave a forced smile and cleared his throat, hunching over to speak into the microphone that was much too low for his tall stature. Bouquets of flowers washed the stage around him in a myriad of pinks, yellows and creamy whites. 

Agent Park introduced himself as a fellow keeper of the law, a man of justice, and Agent Byun Baekhyun’s best friend. He recounted tales of their adventures together, funny moments they shared, things that made Byun smile. The usual sad ramblings from a grieving best friend. His was the last eulogy of the night, after an endless drone of speeches from those who knew Agent Byun well. Even people from other divisions came to say a few words, as Byun was a social butterfly who was well liked by everyone and their grandmother. What a shame.

San zoned out for most of it. He didn’t need to hear stories or recall memories of someone he’d killed. Didn’t need to, didn’t want to. San felt like a wolf in sheep’s clothing, which wasn’t far from the truth, and the irony was almost cruel. He stood in a chapel full of grieving colleagues, wearing a mask of sorrow to assimilate among them, but his heart remained stone cold. San’s eyebrows pinched together, and his lips pulled down at the corners, but he wasn’t sad—not really. 

Being sad would imply he felt some kind of remorse. It would imply he felt that what he did was wrong, that there was no justice in it. The more San thought about it, the less guilty he felt. In a twisted, backwards kind of way, the more he thought about it, the more _right_ his decision felt. Agent Byun might not have been evil, but he was a cog in the wheel of a wicked machine, one that crushed innocent lives between its jagged gears. To San, that was enough.

San looked around the room. He looked at the faces of his colleagues, like blank, empty sheep in a herd. Dozens of cogs in a massive wheel of apathy and heartlessness. They could all rot, as far as San cared. San was ashamed to be one of them. 

“...And I mean it when I say we lost a hero,” Agent Park finished with a tight nod, his voice cracking on the final syllable. He stepped down from the podium. 

San scoffed internally. _The bar for being a hero must be pretty damn low,_ he thought bitterly. Heroes didn’t make a spectator sport out of watching people suffer. Heroes wouldn’t laugh at a kid slitting his own wrists to escape a life of suffering. Not that San knew what it meant to be a hero, since he, too, was a perfect, polished, apathetic cog. Until recently, at least. Now he was rusted and worn, corroded down until his wheel came to a screeching halt. An anomaly in the machine. 

And honestly, San wanted to see the whole thing come crashing down. 

At what point did he start siding with the hybrids? At what point did _they_ become the agents? His enemies?

A hand snaked around San’s waist, Yunho’s large frame hugging him in close. 

“You doing ok? I know you hate funerals,” Yunho murmured, leaning in to speak against San’s ear. 

“Doesn’t everyone?” San grumbled evasively. 

“You know what I mean.” Yunho rubbed his hand in small circles along San’s back. 

San had been to his fair share of funerals as consequence of his line of work. Even before he joined the Special Operations force, funerals would happen once or twice a year for cops who’d fallen in the line of duty. San did hate funerals. His very first one had been for his parents when he was seventeen, and they acted as a visceral, aching reminder of how unfair life could be. He had a tendency to shut down whenever the memory was dredged up, his mind and body going numb with a fresh wave of grief that never quite went away. 

This time, though, San was numb for other reasons. Numb in the sense he felt nothing in the way of guilt or remorse, just a chilling smugness at the tears being shed over the man he murdered. San had always been a little cold and detached when it came to killing on the job, but this was a new level, even for him. It scared him a bit. He wasn’t heartless, but his heart seemed to be leading him into strange new territories. 

San gave a soft smile. “I’m ok,” he assured Yunho. 

Yunho returned his smile with a soft, sympathetic expression. “Come on, let’s go find Jongho. I want to congratulate him on his first hybrid arrest. The little baby’s all grown up!” He stuck his bottom lip out in a theatrical pout. 

Right, Jongho had hauled a hybrid into Confinement the night before. He’d broken the record for youngest agent ever to arrest a hybrid alone, which would have been grounds for a celebration if not for Agent Byun’s untimely demise overshadowing his accomplishment. Yunho tugged at San’s waist, leading him over to a cluster of people all congratulating Jongho. 

Soft music filled the room after the eulogies were finished, and people began to mingle as waiters walked around with trays of champagne. San grabbed a glass from one as they crossed paths, ignoring the look of concern Yunho shot him as he brought it to his lips. They joined the circle of people around Jongho, giving a curt nod to the others as he took a much needed swig of his drink. It cooled his tongue and warmed his throat as it went down. Jongho’s eyes flickered curiously to the arm around San’s waist, but said nothing, only giving San a small, knowing smile. 

“Look who’s all grown up!” Yunho cheered with a playful punch to Jongho’s shoulder. 

“You make it sound like I just graduated high school or something. You’re only, what, two years older than me?” Jongho huffed, a sheepish grin creeping onto his face at all the attention. 

“But you’re the baby in the Ops division, Mr. Record-Setter,” Mingi chimed in, appearing behind San and Yunho with his glass raised in a solitary toast. 

“I’m not sure if it even counts. The hybrid bled out by the time we got to Confinement. I shouldn’t have shot it as many times as I did,” Jongho gave a bashful shrug. 

San’s stomach twisted at Jongho’s use of the word _it_ in reference to the hybrid. As much as San wanted to be proud and congratulate him, he just couldn’t. The words were lodged in his throat and wouldn’t come out. Of course he was proud of Jongho, his friend—his family, practically—for doing well and advancing in his career, San really was proud, but on the other hand… it just felt wrong. Jongho was a great guy, so hearing him call the hybrid _it_ made San feel sick in all kinds of ways. San didn’t want to see Jongho fall down the path of apathy like the others. 

If they met Wooyoung, would they call him an _it?_ Would they look at him as being less than human? San knew the answer already, and took another big swig of his drink to ease the contempt crawling underneath his skin. 

“It counts!” Mingi assured cheerfully. “You did a great job. Not your fault it died once it got there.”

Again with the _it._

“Yeah, I know, I just need to try harder next time. We didn’t even get to the interrogation,” Jongho gave a frustrated sigh. 

“The good part!” Mingi elbowed Jongho lightly in the ribs. 

“Exactly! Dammit, I should have held fire after the first two rounds. The third really did a number on it.” Jongho shook his head and sipped his drink. 

The scene played out in San’s head. He imagined Jongho chasing Wooyoung through the dark city streets, pistol raised as he fired off round after round. Two shots pierced straight through Wooyoung’s back, his gait slowing enough for Jongho to close the distance. To err on the side of caution, Jongho fired off another round, landing right between Wooyoung’s scapulas. Wooyoung fell to the pavement, blood pouring from his wounds as Jongho secured his hands behind his back with carbon fiber restraints. Wooyoung’s wounds continued to gush as they transported him to Confinement, succumbing to his injuries on the way, closing his eyes for good as he died on the cold floor of the armored van. 

“Hey, you look a little pale,” Yunho murmured into San’s ear. “Are you sure you’re ok?” 

“I—I just need a minute,” San stammered, backing away from the circle and turning on his heels before Yunho could ask any more questions. 

San tossed back the rest of his drink and abandoned his glass on a random table as he shoved his way through the crowd into the foyer. His lungs felt tight, like he was trying to breathe through one of those little straws meant for stirring coffee. He stumbled out into the foyer, where the ceiling opened up in a wide expanse above him, and a grand staircase curved elegantly up to the second floor. It was deserted, thankfully, and San sank down onto the steps, burying his head in his hands as he tried to calm himself down. 

San felt like an outsider. He didn’t belong with all the other agents, who believed they were fighting for a just cause. He didn’t belong in the Special Operations Division, where he was expected to either dispatch or apprehend his targets without question, regardless of their circumstance. And, most of all, San didn’t belong in this chapel, at a funeral for the man he killed with his own two hands. 

Then… where did he belong? In the underground, with Wooyoung?

The thought seemed a little ridiculous. A cop, turning coat to become a sol dealer with his merry little band of hybrids? A Special fucking Ops, no less? San laughed to himself. It _was_ ridiculous. 

And even more ridiculous was the fact that it actually sounded appealing. 

“San?” Yunho’s voice called out. 

San knew it was only a matter of time before Yunho came and found him. He kept his head buried in his hands as Yunho sat next to him, wrapping an arm around San’s shoulders. San took a few deep breaths, doing his best to untangle the thoughts that twisted and knotted in his brain like angry vipers. 

“It’s ok, I’ve got you,” Yunho breathed, his cheek resting against San’s hair. Their knees bumped together as Yunho scooted closer, stroking his thumb along San’s shoulder through his heavy blazer. It was suffocatingly hot, but San didn’t want to risk looking Yunho in the eye by moving. 

San hadn’t spoken alone with Yunho since they’d slept together two nights ago. He’d had a mental breakdown in his arms afterwards, and he could tell Yunho was trying to be cautious about approaching him. Like Yunho wanted to give him space, but simultaneously couldn’t leave him alone. He was concerned, rightfully so, by San’s odd behavior. San knew that. Then again, San didn’t know anything. 

Yunho let out a thick sigh after a moment. “San, I—” another sigh, “I don’t know what to do. You’re really scaring me.” San didn’t like hearing him sound so broken. 

“I’m fine,” San croaked unconvincingly. 

“San,” Yunho sighed, like he was scolding San for not speaking to him. “You don’t need to tell me what’s going on, but I want to know how I can help. Seeing you hurt like this hurts me just as much.” Yunho’s hand tightened around San’s shoulder. 

That. That right there was part of the problem. Yunho always being there for him, unconditionally and without question. Yunho always taking care of him, supporting him, helping him. San didn’t deserve a shred of it. Yunho was hurting simply because San was hurting, and San hated it. He wanted to sink into the floor and have Yunho forget about him completely, free of San and all of his San-related problems. 

“Stop being nice to me,” San mumbled pathetically into his hands. He didn’t care if he sounded petulant.

“It’s my job,” Yunho stated as if it was a fact. 

“No it’s not,” San argued. 

“San, please look at me,” Yunho commanded gently, trying to pull San’s hands away from his face. 

San sighed through his nose and let his hands fall into his lap. He kept his gaze fixed on the floor. 

“San,” Yunho said again, cupping San’s cheek to turn his head. “It is my job. You know that.”

San begrudgingly met Yunho’s eyes. His expression was soft, but clearly desperate to some degree. Desperate for San to give him any kind of answer at all. San didn’t have one. 

“Why?” San asked dryly. 

“I’m your best friend. It just is.” Yunho brushed his thumb over the curve of San’s cheek. 

“Best friends don’t sleep together,” San blurted, and it came out colder than intended. 

Yunho’s eyebrows pinched together, his lips falling open in surprise. “Is that what this is about? If it is, I—”

San stood abruptly, effectively cutting him off. “Just forget it. Let’s go back in,” he sighed, taking a step toward the main room, but Yunho caught him by the wrist. 

“Please, just wait. If I did something to hurt you, then—”

“It’s fine. Everything is _fine_ ,” San snapped, shaking Yunho’s hand from his wrist. San tried to walk away, but Yunho spun him around with a commanding grip on his shoulders. He hadn’t really meant to snap at Yunho, but all the stress in his life had him wound up tighter than a bowstring. He needed another drink. 

San remembered last night’s dream, where he’d been playing cards with Yunho and Agent Byun while the room slowly filled with water like a fish tank. A chill permeated his entire body as he recalled black water lapping at his chin, his dream continuing to haunt him in his waking state. Was Yunho to be his next victim, should this continue? Was San going to drag Yunho into the depths, just like Byun? Was _San_ next? His own victim? 

He didn’t know what his mind was trying to tell him. San was drowning, even while he was awake, choking to death on his own moral incompetence. What he desperately needed was to get away from Yunho.

“No—no, it’s not fine. You’re acting really weird, and I just want to help you if I can, I just—San, I—”

“Please, Yunho, just—just let go.”

“You’re really scaring me! You’ve been shutting me out, and I don’t—I don’t know what to do! It’s killing me, and—and I can’t take it. I—“ Yunho stammered. He looked straight into San’s eyes, his expression wavering between desperation and something else. 

Yunho’s lips opened and shut a few times, and San felt paralyzed. He knew what Yunho wanted to say.

“San, I—“

Don’t. Don’t say it. 

“Yunho—” San cut in. 

_Please_ don’t say it.

“I love you, ok?” Yunho breathed, cupping San’s face firmly in his hands. “As my best friend, as a person—please, San. Just let me in,” he begged. 

Great. Just great. Just what he needed. 

San stared at him for a good few seconds. His lips fell open as if he intended to speak, but nothing came out. Yunho’s eyes silently pleaded for a response, but San didn’t give one. He _couldn’t_ give one. Not one that would make things any better, at least.

He shook Yunho off and turned on his heels, making a beeline for the main room, disappearing into the crowd before Yunho could stop him. He sashayed through various clusters of black-clad bodies in an aimless attempt to get away as fast as possible. He was quite literally running away from his problems, but he was too overwhelmed to care. San’s best friend had confessed his love for him at the funeral of the man San had killed. What a riot. 

His life was turning into such a joke. 

San broke free of the crowd, spotting an opening by the banquet table. An impressive feast in an array of baking dishes, bowls, plates, and platters spanned the table, but nothing could have sounded worse. The mere thought of eating made his stomach lurch, and he breathed through his mouth as he leaned onto the table to avoid the rancid smell of casserole. The only things that looked good were the bottles of champagne nestled in a bed of ice at the far end of the table, taunting him with their dazzling, gold-leafed embellishments. 

San wasn’t quite sure what possessed him to snatch one from the ice bucket, but he did, slipping away into the courtyard with the bottle in hand. Someone probably saw him do it, but quite frankly he didn’t care. His night had been a steaming pile of shit slapped on top of a landfill, and he was ready to make it worse. What better way than by downing an entire bottle of champagne? 

There was a large fountain in the center of the courtyard, and San took a seat on the flat stone, putting a wall of water in between him and everyone he didn’t want to be around. The sound of rushing water helped to drown out his thoughts somewhat, and he inhaled deeply, filling his lungs to the brink with crisp, chilly night air. San held the bottle of champagne between his knees, working it open until it gave a dramatic _pop_ , the cork plunking into a bush as it fell. 

He wasted no time chugging half the bottle, gulping down champagne until he ran out of breath. Bubbles tickled in his throat, and he let out a satisfied belch as he looked up toward the stars, alcohol warming his body from the inside. It slowly crept away from his chest and into his fingers and toes, numbing everything but his mind. His mind, unfortunately, was still a tangle of vipers in his head, hissing, biting and filling his brain with venom. 

San wondered what Wooyoung was doing. He thought about Wooyoung a lot these days, whether he wanted to or not. He wondered if Wooyoung was home, or if he was out doing business. San wondered what it would be like to live in the moonlight rather than the sunlight, sleeping the day away with heavy curtains drawn. Hell, he practically already did with how much time he spent at Wooyoung’s place. He’d stay awake well into the night, sometimes until the dawn raws began to creep through the windows and force Wooyoung to shut the blinds. 

San remembered the time he’d asked Wooyoung what would happen if he went out in the sun. The answer was hilariously anticlimactic—a sunburn and a migraine. Then Wooyoung had pulled the curtain back and let his hand bask in a beam of sunlight for a few moments, until his skin turned red and started to blister slightly. It healed almost immediately once Wooyoung pulled his hand away, the burn fading as quickly as it had come. San laughed, having expected him to burst into flames. Wooyoung grinned and punched him in the shoulder, calling him an idiot. 

San took another long swig from the bottle. The sound of Wooyoung’s laugh was cemented in his mind, echoing like a song stuck in his head. He loved Wooyoung’s laugh. It was silly and contagious, and when he was laughing it meant he was smiling, and when he was smiling it meant he was happy. In the moment, at least. He liked seeing Wooyoung happy, for whatever reason. It made San’s heart flutter like his chest was a birdcage full of canaries. 

Jesus, he was drunk to be thinking shit like that. _Or not drunk enough,_ he countered himself as he chugged another few gulps from the bottle. He remembered what Wooyoung had said about blowing up the lab and leaving the Ruby behind for good, and made him feel like he couldn’t breathe. The thought of Wooyoung leaving made his chest feel like it was closing in on itself, crushed between two giant, invisible hands. The thought of never seeing Wooyoung again. 

Why?

Was it because of the sex? True, if Wooyoung left for good, San would be losing a really great source of sexual satisfaction. Then again, if that was the case, wouldn’t San just turn to Yunho? It would make perfect sense for San to leap straight into Yunho’s arms, effectively eliminating all of his outside dilemmas. The sex with Yunho hadn’t been bad—just the opposite, actually. It was pretty damn great. San’s dick would be kept very happy, no question. 

Why, then? Why didn’t San want Wooyoung to leave? 

Maybe it was because Wooyoung knew him in ways other people didn’t. Everything about their relationship was illegal right from the start, so keeping up appearances was plain silly. Knowingly withholding crucial information to a case, _especially_ when it involved hybrids, was grounds in itself for detainment. Hell, San was breaking the law just being in Wooyoung’s presence and not arresting him. His division took hybrid related offenses very, very seriously. They didn’t even consider hybrids to be humans; San could only imagine the kind of disgust he’d face if they knew he was fucking one. 

Wooyoung was just as human as San was, as far as San was concerned. Wooyoung bled when he was hurt—maybe not quite as much, but still—he laughed when things were funny, he cried when he was sad. Well, not that San had ever seen him cry. In person, at least. He could only assume. Regardless, San saw him as a human who happened to have fangs and needed to drink blood to live. They were more alike than not.

The more he thought about Wooyoung, the more his head spun in circles. Or maybe it was all the champagne. San couldn’t help but laugh at how fucked his whole situation was, a drunken cackle escaping his lips as he smiled up at the night sky. 

San was falling apart. He was like… like Bonnie Tyler. _I don’t know what to do, and I’m always in the dark._

He killed the rest of the bottle, burped, then began singing into it like a microphone. He didn’t really know the first part of the song, so he hummed it the best he could, occasionally throwing in some lyrics he thought were right. San stood up, balancing on the flat stones around the fountain’s edge as he began to catwalk around it in time to his song. 

“And I need you now, toniiiiiight…” he sang into the opening of the bottle, his free hand making dramatic gestures into the air as he pranced around the fountain. “And I need you more than ever! And if you hold me, hold me—”

“San? Is that you?” Jongho’s voice called from across the courtyard. 

San ignored him. “We’ll be holding on—forever! And we’ll only be—”

“What the hell are you doing?” Mingi’s voice called next. 

“Your love is like a shadow on me all of the timeeeee!” San belted out. 

Mingi and Jongho gave each other a confused, what-the-fuck look, then Mingi put his arms out to try to stop San in his tracks. “Hey—wait a sec—”

“I don’t know what to do, and I’m always in the dark!” 

Jongho also tried to intervene. “Hey, man, I’m guessing you’re really drunk, can you just—”

“We’re livin’ in a powder keg and givin’ off—sparks!” At the word _sparks,_ San jumped into the fountain, dramatically splashing water everywhere with his feet. 

“Hey hey hey! Woah, what the fuck are you doing?” Mingi barked as San assaulted him with water. 

Jongho reached forward, trying to grab San by the arm, but San sank down to his knees in the fountain, evading capture by rolling around in the water, singing at the top of his lungs as his clothes became totally soaked through. He was having the time of his life, and he didn’t give a shit about anything or anyone. He didn’t care about making a complete fool of himself, or getting fired, or Yunho, or… 

Wooyoung. 

Actually, he did kind of give a shit about Wooyoung. He was wasted, and he wanted to see Wooyoung. 

Mingi whipped his phone out of his pocket while Jongho was busy trying to corral San. The call connected after a few moments, and his tone as he spoke into the receiver was one of exasperation. 

“I need you to come collect San,” he huffed. There was a pause. “I _mean_ he’s being a fucking idiot! Can you just come out here? We’re in the courtyard.” Mingi hung up the phone and shoved it back into his pocket. 

Not thirty seconds later, Yunho came jogging out from the building, his expression morphing into one of confusion and shock as soon as he laid eyes on San giggling and splashing a frustrated Jongho in the fountain. San kept belting out lyrics, completely unconcerned with anything happening around him. 

“A total eclipse of the heeeeeeart—”

“San—what the hell are you doing?” Yunho demanded, flinching as San splashed water at him in a defensive maneuver when Yunho tried to grab him. 

“This idiot’s wasted,” Jongho deadpanned, his clothes soaked and expression pissed. 

“He’s, um, providing the eighties medley I guess,” Mingi shrugged, equal parts amused and baffled by San’s shenanigans. 

Jongho was finally able to grab San by the collar of his suit jacket, dragging him kicking and screaming out of the fountain, cursing in protest the whole way. Jongho tried to get San up onto his feet, but San wrapped his arms behind his neck, falling into a dramatic, theatrical dip as he continued to sing at the top of his lungs. Startled, Jongho caught him by the waist before he could fall.

“Once upon a time, there was light in my life!” San caressed a hand over Jongho’s cheek like they were performing a musical together. “But now there’s only love in the dark!” 

“Hey, dude, you’re acting like a lunatic. We’re at a funeral, you know,” Jongho reminded him, cringing as San dragged a wet hand across his face. 

“I don’t give a shit!” San laughed, giddy and wine-drunk. “You can all go to hell!” he declared to everyone and no one in particular. 

“Please stop screaming, people are gonna—“

I’m gonna—I’m gonna fake my death! That’s what I’ll do. Choi San, twenty seven, jumped off a fucking bridge! Ah, tragic!” San announced, howling with laughter until tears prickled at the corners of his eyes.

“What the hell are you talking about?” Mingi huffed, laughing in disbelief. 

“This job is—fucked—up! I—hate—it!” San wailed, kicking his feet petulantly as Jongho struggled not to drop him. 

“Pretty soon you won’t have a job if you don’t calm the fuck down!” Jongho gritted, quickly losing patience.

“You’re my little baby, Jongho—all grown up. Arresting hybrids! You’re a good little bitch for the government—just like the rest of us!” San cooed sarcastically, and Jongho’s expression looked shocked and somewhat hurt.

“San! That’s enough—“ Yunho interjected, taking a step toward them.

“Guess what?” San giggled, cupping a hand next to his mouth like he was going to tell Jongho a secret, despite his voice staying well above room-volume. “Yunho fucked me! He fu—“

“San, come here,” Yunho commanded sternly, scooping a drenched San up from Jongho’s arms. San laughed hysterically as his feet left the ground, and Yunho’s clothes became soaked upon contact. “What the hell is your problem? Are you trying to get yourself fired?”

“I don’t—give a shit,” San panted in between fits of laughter. 

Yunho gave a frustrated sigh. Mingi and Jongho stared at them with wide eyes, completely floored by the situation. No one spoke, except San, who continued humming a broken version of _total eclipse of the heart_ under his breath in between breathless laughs. 

Yunho carried San bridal style back through the chapel, ignoring the odd stares trained in their direction as they dripped a trail of water in their wake. San’s humming echoed in the quiet hall as Yunho carried him to the bathroom, depositing San in front of the door with a stern glare. San swayed on his feet, bracing a hand against the wall as the world swayed around him. 

“Inside,” Yunho commanded, and San begrudgingly pushed the door open. 

Yunho locked the door behind them, then immediately turned to help San strip off his drenched suit jacket, giving it a good squeeze over the sink to wring out the excess water. San sank heavily onto the lid of the toilet, accidentally bonking his head onto the wall when he leaned back too far. San closed his eyes, feeling like he could probably down another bottle of booze if one were to suddenly appear in his hands. 

Yunho did his best with wringing out San’s jacket, then draped it over the sink. He crouched in front of San, his brow furrowed like a parent disciplining their unruly child. San groaned as the room spun. 

“Look at me,” Yunho prompted gently. “What’s going on?” There wasn’t an ounce of harshness in his tone. 

San smiled. “I don’t deserve you,” he slurred. 

“What makes you say that?” Yunho asked, brushing a chunk of dripping hair out of San’s face. 

San was a murderer, a traitor, and a liar. He was fucking a hybrid. He killed police officers. He took sol, more than once. He snorted coke off a stripper’s tits. He keeps getting wasted and forcing Yunho to take care of him. He fucked Yunho, knowing that Yunho was in love with him. He even pointed a gun at Yunho, once, and Yunho still forgave him. He deserved the electric chair more than he deserved Yunho. 

But he couldn’t exactly say any of that. 

“I just don’t,” San breathed, a sorrowful smile pulling at the corners of his lips. 

“I know I’m not supposed to ask, but—what the hell is he doing to you?” Yunho asked reluctantly. 

San's eyes went wide, then hardened into a startled frown. Had San accidentally mentioned something about Wooyoung? He felt his heart speed up in a panic. 

“Who?” San demanded. 

“This… this hybrid, I’m assuming. He’s blackmailing you for blood, and…” he clearly didn’t want to say _sex,_ but it was fairly obvious. “We can get you out of this, San. You know there’s nothing you can’t tell me,” Yunho murmured, caressing San’s cheek with his thumb. 

Oh. Right, _blackmail_. That other lie he was telling Yunho, on top of many. 

San wanted to run away. He wanted to run and never look back, leaving everything behind while he hit the gas, flames burning in his rear view mirror. He wanted to drop his badge straight into the ocean, watching it sink into the black abyss. He wanted to leap right out the window and escape into the night, running straight into Wooyoung’s arms. He wanted… 

Wait. 

Window? 

San took Yunho’s hands in his. “Could—could you give me a minute? I just need some time to think,” he slurred, blurry eyes settling on Yunho’s caring face. 

“Yeah,” Yunho breathed. “Yeah, of course.” He placed a kiss on the top of San’s head, giving San’s hands a quick squeeze in his before stepping out. 

San was beyond fucked up, if his next decision was anything to go by. 

The door clicked shut, and San was left in the bathroom alone. He grabbed his wet jacket from off the sink and turned on the faucet, using the running water to mask the sounds of him fumbling with the lock on the window. It squeaked open, and San pushed it as far as it would go, giving himself enough room to climb through. He tossed his jacket out first and hiked a leg up onto the window sill. 

San landed less than gracefully in the bushes below, slicing up his ankles on the way down, but he was too drunk to give a shit. He picked up his jacket and ran, leaving behind a running faucet and a patiently waiting Yunho in the hall. Cool wind tickled his face and chilled his skin as he booked it down the road, earning stares from passersby as they watched in bewilderment. 

San was being a complete fool. He knew that. 

All he could think about was how badly he wanted to see Wooyoung. Wooyoung wouldn’t care if he was being a drunk idiot. Wooyoung wouldn’t look at him with pitying eyes, or try to force his way into his head. Wooyoung didn’t expect anything of him, or want San to be something he wasn’t. Wooyoung just took things as they came, laughing at amusement as chaos unfolded, calling San a dumbass with a coy grin on his face. 

Wooyoung, Wooyoung, _Wooyoung._

He ran until he came to a busy street, where he flagged down a cab and climbed into the back. The cab driver looked San up and down as he sank onto the seat, dripping water everywhere, but he just sighed and put the car in drive. San fished a few extra wet bills from his wallet and handed them over, giving the driver an apologetic, drunken smile. 

“Need t’ get to the Hotel Ruby,” he panted.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> san be wildin 
> 
> tumblr @ yungwooyoung
> 
> also i made a twitter @yungwooyoung but idk how to fucking use it so uh 
> 
> playlist for this fic that goes hard as fuck if you wanna check it out [here!!](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/5eGeySTdOkbL7GnwxifYW7?si=Srtv7kQNSbyvS_ZwvoA6hg)


	16. i'm losing my mind

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> nya desu

Wooyoung shifted his weight between his feet, arms crossed over his chest as he absently played with a cigarette butt, rolling it against the pavement beneath the sole of his shoe. He was dressed casually, with a black leather jacket and a backpack slung over one shoulder, filled with merchandise for this evening’s client. It was a nice change, not having to get dolled up to deal to some egotistical prick. Instead, he was meeting an old friend at a downtown venue that mostly catered to metalheads and hardcore types, which were a surprisingly pleasant crowd.

Bodies clad in spikes and leather trickled in and out of the entrance as Wooyoung waited for Yeosang, who was taking his sweet time. Tobacco smoke stung his nose as people in the vicinity lit up their cigarettes, something he was averse to ever since becoming a hybrid. He knew plenty of hybrids who never kicked their human smoking habits, something Wooyoung would never understand with his enhanced olfactory abilities. Too pungent for his tastes. To each his own, he supposed. 

“Hey,” Yeosang called as he rounded the corner toward Wooyoung. “Sorry I’m late. I was grabbing a drink from Hwa―Val,” Yeosang corrected quickly. 

“You two seem awfully close these days. I can’t believe you’d steal my donor from me,” Wooyoung whined, shoulder-to-shoulder with Yeosang as they entered the venue. 

“Give me a break. You barely even drink from her since you converted to pig’s blood,” Yeosang scoffed mildly. He still liked to talk shit about San, but it was less vicious than before. 

Wooyoung rolled his eyes. “Gross.”

Yeosang wasn’t wrong, though. Wooyoung still had a few spare tubes of blood in the fridge from the last time Val had donated for him, and that was weeks ago. His supply had been stretching much farther since San came into the picture, and Wooyoung figured Val would probably appreciate not having to stab herself with a needle quite as often. Fresh blood was easily preferable to stored―as the sodium citrate added to prevent the blood from coagulating left it much too salty for Wooyoung’s liking. Not to mention it was cold, which was a little gross. And San was type B, which was Wooyoung’s favorite. 

Music assaulted Wooyoung’s ears the moment they entered the building, kicks, snares and hi hats rattling his brain like detonating bombs. The vocalist on stage screamed into the mic, piercing the musty, sweat-rank air of the venue in shrill, violent shockwaves. That was another thing Wooyoung wasn’t too fond of anymore—loud noise. His sensitive ears were attuned to pick up on the slightest of sounds, so music blaring through amplifiers at a hundred plus decibels wasn’t exactly his cup of tea.

There were a lot of things that made being a hybrid a pain in the ass, like cigarette smoke, loud noise aversion, cold, salty tubes of blood, and not being able to go outside at a reasonable hour, to name a few. Wooyoung didn’t mind the nightlife, considering he was a night owl to begin with, but it made certain tasks harder than they needed to be. Like getting his oil changed, which he had to task Val with on his behalf. Or getting his clothes dry-cleaned, or getting new clothes in general. Things like that. Val had basically become his personal assistant, running errands for him when she wasn’t bartending, which Wooyoung sometimes felt bad about. Oh, well, it was probably better than life as a trophy piece for an ancient vampire slash mafia kingpin. 

Wooyoung also missed eating human food quite a bit. He’d give his left nut for a good slice of pizza, or maybe a steaming bowl of ramen with slices of pork and a soft boiled egg on top. Most foods were revolting to him nowadays, even things that used to be his favorite, like grilled meat. The flavor was fine, but the texture sickened him in ways he couldn’t even describe. Dairy tasted spoiled, vegetables smelled like grass, sugar made his tongue curl. He could stand alcohol, luckily—the stronger the better— and he had a new appreciation for black coffee that he didn’t as a human. Rice he could stand, so long as it was swimming in sriracha, but it wasn’t anything to write home about. 

Being a hybrid had its pros, of course. There were the obvious things, like having bodybuilder-level strength and the ability to tolerate intense pain to a certain degree, but there were also little things, like never having the flu or never having a hangover. Human ailments were no longer a concern, no headaches, stomach bugs or sore muscles. His fangs were pretty sexy too, if he did say so himself. And San loved being bitten—despite being in denial about it—so things worked out pretty well. 

Whoops, there he went thinking about San again. It happened a lot these days, out of nowhere, cutting in when Wooyoung least expected it. Those once fleeting, offhanded thoughts eventually developed into a huge problem, occupying his mind like a sickness. Wooyoung wasn’t dumb—he knew San was more than just a booty call. What that meant, exactly, he wasn’t sure, but it ate away at his brain like a swarm of locusts in his crop field of reasonability. 

At first, San was a mere conquest—the idea of Wooyoung’s greatest enemy down on his knees with a mouth full of cock was too delicious to pass up. It was like metaphorically fucking the government; getting his revenge in an ironic, sexual kind of way. Not to mention San was drop-dead gorgeous, so it was certainly a fun way to pass the time. More than just gorgeous—San was like a painting come to life, with perfect features and a smile that could melt Wooyoung’s heart like butter in a pan. God, that fucking smile. 

When did San go from being Wooyoung’s sexy little chew toy to just being… _San?_ Someone he genuinely cared about, who made him laugh until his eyes filled with tears, who made his heart swell with his smile—that beautiful fucking smile—who Wooyoung would take a _fucking bullet_ for? How the hell did that happen? Wooyoung’s whole world had stopped the moment Zico squeezed the trigger, and his body had moved before his mind even processed what was happening. 

The idea of losing San had become painful—no, _unbearable._

When did Wooyoung become someone who would take a bullet for someone else? _Especially_ a fucking government agent trained solely to kill him? The incident haunted his mind ever since, endless battles of conflicting thoughts waging a war inside his skull. He wasn’t exactly a selfless person, but something about San brought out a protective, almost possessive nature that Wooyoung didn’t even know he had. Maybe it was the vampire side of him. 

_Or maybe it’s because the only time you’re happy is when you’re with San, since you temporarily forget how rotten the world is and how much you wish you were dead, so the idea of losing him is too painful to bear_ , a tiny little voice chimed in, unsolicited. 

Wooyoung sighed, running a hand through his hair in annoyance. Now was most certainly not the time. 

Wooyoung followed Yeosang through the surge of sweaty bodies clad in patched denim vests and heavy boots, the air thick with malt liquor and weed. They slipped through to the hall that led backstage, following the sound of warm-up guitar chords and raucous yelling from the bands queued up for the show. They crossed paths with a security guard, who nodded politely upon recognition, steering clear as they reached the greenroom. Yeosang knocked five times in a distinct pattern, the first three in quick succession, followed by two slower knocks. A voice hollered above all the noise, granting them entry. 

“Yo!” Nakamoto Yuta called, a hand raised in greeting, a cigarette hanging lazily between black fingernails and tattooed knuckles. Bleached white hair hung low over his eyes, fried to a crisp from years of abuse. 

Bodies were splayed out on the couches around the room, instruments on their laps and beers in their hands, several were leaned forward over the coffee table doing lines with rolled up bills. This room was the epicenter of the weed smell, apparently, as the fog in the room was so thick Wooyoung practically felt a contact high. 

Yuta placed the cig between his lips and captured Yeosang’s hand in an enthusiastic bro shake, bumping their fists with a grin. Yeosang and Yuta went way back, and Wooyoung came to know him as well thanks to his business. Yuta was the guitarist and sub vocalist for a notoriously wild black metal band, who had pioneered the trend of taking sol before performing to out-crazy the competition. ‘Crazy’ was putting it gently, to say the least. 

“What’d you bring me?” Yuta asked with an upward nod.

Wooyoung slipped the backpack from his shoulder and slid the zipper open, fishing out a small metal case the size of a pencil box. It contained twelve vials of sol, enough to last Yuta’s band through the next couple of shows. They didn’t usually deal in such small quantities themselves—usually such a menial task would be handled by one of their runners—but Yuta was a friend, therefore an exception. It was a nice break from all the gangs and rich assholes Wooyoung was used to. 

“Another twelve,” Wooyoung answered, tossing the case into Yuta’s lap, who caught it cheerfully. 

“You’re the best!” Yuta grinned, flipping the latch to give it a peek. 

“We’d stay for the show, but I gotta bounce. I’m meeting another client tonight,” Yeosang sighed, leaning against the wall. 

“The guys playing have a few more songs left. Kick it for a few?” Yuta retrieved a joint from behind his ear and wiggled it temptingly between his fingers. 

Yeosang cracked a small smile. “Fine,” he sighed, popping down on the couch next to Yuta. 

Wooyoung joined them, kicking his feet up onto the coffee table and dumping his backpack onto the floor. Yuta lit up the joint, letting the tip catch fire before blowing it out, a smoldering cherry in its place. Yuta took a deep drag, ghosting it quickly before exhaling a thick cloud of white. He passed it to Yeosang. 

“So, Wooyoung—my bad, _J_ —my buddy who works for Bang Yongguk told me your boyfriend went and pissed him off real good,” Yuta snickered, eyebrows raised in amusement. 

“My _who?_ ” Wooyoung snorted, taking the joint from Yeosang once he finished his hit. 

“He said the guy stirred the pot quite a bit. Decked one of Bang’s goonies, and Bang nearly had a coronary. Said he was your boyfriend or something,” Yuta shrugged.

Yeosang’s eyes slid from Yuta to Wooyoung in seething disbelief. Wooyoung had, perhaps, failed to mention to Yeosang that he brought San to a deal as his _donor_. It’d been kind of a spontaneous thing—and, well, it hadn’t gone so great. It ended with San staring down the business end of Bang’s glock, and a whole lot of ass-kissing on Wooyoung’s part in reparation.

Wooyoung took a hit and passed the joint back to Yuta, deliberately avoiding meeting Yeosang’s eyes. 

“Nah, there was a misunderstanding. The guy started some shit, that’s all,” Wooyoung dismissed, trying to dispel the rumor. From the way Yeosang was staring at him in his peripheral, he wasn’t buying it. 

Wooyoung quickly changed the subject, moving on to something safer, like Yuta’s sick new guitar. Yuta babbled about it for a while, something about the frets being made from human bones, quickly pushing the conversation along. Wooyoung did his best to avoid eye contact with Yeosang until it was time for them to leave. Yuta’s band dosed up on sol and piled out of the room in a raucous stampede, and Wooyoung followed Yeosang out the back, the harsh roar of black metal becoming muffled as the door shut behind them. 

The back door left them in a wide alley between the venue and the next building, broken glass and cigarillo wrappers crunching underneath Wooyoung’s feet, a stray insulin syringe rolling across the discolored asphalt. Yeosang spun around to face him the moment the cool outside air hit his face. 

“Did you bring San on a deal with you?” Yeosang demanded, his voice quiet but stiff. 

Wooyoung scoffed, running his tongue across his teeth. “Listen, it wasn’t a big—“ he started, but Yeosang cut him off with a disbelieving laugh. 

“What the hell are you thinking? Are you out of your damn mind?” Yeosang’s glare was icy, like two frozen daggers boring into Wooyoung’s skull. 

“It was fine. Nothing happened.”

“It didn’t sound fine. You guys went and pissed of Bang? Are you fucking kidding me?” Yeosang spat. 

“Like I said, it was a misunderstanding—“

“Do you have any idea what would happen if people found out you were dragging a fed along with you? We’d get blacklisted from here to Timbuktu!” Yeosang hissed through his teeth, keeping his voice low. 

“You think I don’t know that?” Wooyoung gritted. He hated being treated like a child, which Yeosang had been doing a lot lately. 

“You’ve been acting like an idiot ever since _he_ started coming around. You need to get it the fuck together.”

“It is _together_ , Yeosang! I don’t need you fucking patronizing me like a child!” Wooyoung gave an angry wave of his hand. 

“You’re acting like one!” Yeosang jabbed a finger hard into Wooyoung’s chest, shoving him back a pace. “I’m not gonna let you drag our business under because you’re all heart eyes for a fucking cop!”

Ouch. Wooyoung didn’t realize it was so obvious.

“I’m not _heart eyes_ for him!” Wooyoung denied, flabbergasted by the blatant call out. 

“Give me a fucking break. You look at him like he fell from the fucking sky! I don’t care if he wants to be your boy toy or your blood bag or whatever—but seriously?” Yeosang scrubbed his hands over his face in frustration. “Don’t get me wrong—I still owe him for saving my ass, but that doesn’t mean I’m gonna sit here and watch you be a fucking moron! Tell him about the lab, while you’re at it! Tell him everything!”

Wooyoung stared at him, lips pressed into a tight line. “I did tell him,” he said bluntly.

Yeosang blinked, once, twice. “You’re joking.” 

Wooyoung said nothing. 

“Tell me you’re joking. Why—“ Yeosang shook his head in complete disbelief. “You’re out of your goddamn mind, you know that?”

Wooyoung gave a bitter laugh. “Who cares? It’s all gonna burn. What proof will he have?” 

It was all gonna burn, and he would have to move on eventually. From the Ruby, from the whole V2 mess… and from San. It hurt too much to think about. 

Yeosang stared at him, seething in silence for a moment before breaking into an icy grin. “You know what? Fine—I’m done. Find a new business partner.” 

Yeosang turned his back to Wooyoung, glass crunching underfoot as he sauntered out of the alley. Wooyoung couldn’t believe his ears.

“Wh—the hell do you mean find a new business partner?” Wooyoung stammered, astonished by the sudden cold shoulder. 

“I don’t wanna be around when one of you slips up and outs yourself. It’s not gonna be pretty, I can tell you that much. You two have fun. Leave me out of it.”

Yeosang had a point. This whole thing with San was finite in nature. Just a fleeting, playful bit of fun. Temporary—at least, it was supposed to be, until things got out of hand. A relationship between an Ops and a hybrid was volatile and dangerous, constantly teetering on the edge of exposure. Not something to stretch out for too long. San had to kill one of his colleagues to keep him quiet, which—despite having found it very sexy—Wooyoung worried about the implications. For him, for San. For their future. 

For _their_ future? When did Wooyoung start thinking of him and San as a collective? Ugh, it made his head spin just thinking about it. Regardless, Yeosang was right, him and San’s relationship—whatever that meant—was bound for the shredder at some point. Wooyoung was hoping to stay in denial for at least a little while longer. 

“Seriously? You’re cutting me off—just like that?” Wooyoung huffed.

“Yep. Call me when you wake the fuck up.”

“Yeosang—“

“Fuck off,” Yeosang called as he disappeared around the corner.

Wooyoung scoffed, completely floored. Yeosang was right, Wooyoung _was_ being a complete idiot. He was an idiot for sleeping with San in the first place, and he was an idiot for letting him tag along on business deals. Now he was an idiot short of his best friend, as well as his business partner. He didn’t know whether to feel angry or hurt, and his head wouldn’t stop spinning with a barrage of unwelcome thoughts, most of which had to do with San. 

Wooyoung felt numb the entire drive home, his body on autopilot, like he couldn’t even feel the wheel in his hands. He felt numb as he rode the elevator up to the top floor of the Ruby, contemplating his situation with a forlorn sort of rationality. The smart, logical part of his brain was telling him to run straight down to the lab and detonate the bombs, then hop back into his car and drive off, never to be seen again. 

He didn’t owe San anything. Not a goodbye, or an explanation—anything. And yet, the thought of leaving without a trace made his heart ache in his chest. 

Wooyoung sauntered down the hall to room nine hundred, half a mind to chug an entire bottle of tequila to stop feeling for a while. His mind ached, his chest ached, everything. He wanted to stop thinking, to stop feeling at all. More than anything, though, he wanted San. 

As he approached his room at the far end of the hall, a familiar figure was passed out on the carpet, slumped against his door, black hair falling over his eyes as his head hung sleepily forward. His clothes were drenched, and Wooyoung could smell the alcohol clinging to his breath even from where he stood. Just like that, the dull ache was replaced with something else. 

“San?”

“San?”

A hand lightly jostling his shoulder roused San awake from his inebriated half-slumber. He raised his head confusedly as he stirred, groaning against the dizziness rattling his skull and the nausea churning in his stomach. He was slumped against the door of Wooyoung’s hotel room, his head spinning and his clothes soaked. It took him a second to remember where he was or how he’d gotten there, but upon seeing Wooyoung’s concerned face peering down at him, everything came rushing back like he’d been snapped with a rubber band. 

“Wooyoung!” San exclaimed, gripping Wooyoung’s sleeves with all the urgency of someone about to be thrown off a cliff. 

“Wh—what’s wrong? Why are you wet?” Wooyoung demanded, somewhere in between confused and frantic, struggling not to topple over from the force of San grabbing at him. 

San clumsily scrambled up from the floor, using Wooyoung as a support beam. His head was a drunken stew of disjointed thought fragments, and he stumbled over his words as they all tried to fly out of his mouth at once. 

“I—I just—I thought you—“ San stammered incoherently. 

“Hey, easy, let’s go inside, ok?” Wooyoung soothed, ushering San in through the door. It clicked behind them, and San immediately grabbed Wooyoung by the shoulders, feeling the cool leather of his jacket beneath his fingertips. 

“I thought you were gone,” San croaked, hanging his head, relieved, exhausted, and dizzy all at once. 

“Sorry, I was out on a deal. Is—is everything ok?” Wooyoung gently tipped San’s chin up with his fingers, coaxing San’s head up to read his expression. 

San gave a heavy sigh. “I can’t do it anymore, Wooyoung,” he slurred. 

“What do you mean?” 

“I can’t—I can’t live like this. I can’t. I’m living a lie, all I _do_ is lie, and my best friend is in love with me, and I just—I can’t do this. I can’t,” San babbled drunkenly, shaking his head. 

Wooyoung looked like he’d been slapped. His expression shaped into one of wounded shock, his arms falling to his sides. He took a hesitant step back. 

“I… I understand,” Wooyoung nodded solemnly, his lips pressed into a tight line. “If you don’t want to see me anymore, I get it, I’ll just—“

 _If you don’t want to see me anymore?_ Did Wooyoung really think that? 

Just the opposite was true—Wooyoung was _all_ San could think about. All night, in his drunken little head, thoughts of _Wooyoung Wooyoung Wooyoung_ rattling around incessantly like flies. 

“Take me with you,” San blurted, cupping Wooyoung’s face in his hands. 

“What?” Wooyoung’s eyes flew wide open, his lips agape in astonishment. 

“Let’s blow up the lab and get the hell out. I’ll—I’ll fake my death, then I’ll—“

“What the hell are you saying?” Wooyoung laughed in disbelief.

“I don’t want to be a cop anymore,” San confessed. “It makes me sick, the way they talk about hybrids—I can’t listen to it. I can’t keep pretending to.”

“San, you’re drunk, you don’t know what you’re—“

“Wooyoung!” San interrupted, dragging Wooyoung’s face in close to his. His vision swam and the floor felt like it was warping beneath his feet. “I mean it, I—I’m—“

“Here, sit down, ok? Calm down,” Wooyoung suggested, guiding a wobbly San over to the couch. His stomach sloshed uncomfortably with champagne that was fighting to come back up, but he forced it down through sheer willpower. 

San immediately sank down into it, burying his head into his hands with a deep, lengthy groan. Wooyoung walked away for a moment, returning with a bottle of water from the fridge. He cracked the seal as he twisted the cap off and handed it to San, who pressed it against his forehead instead of drinking from it. A little bit of water sloshed out, but San was too soaked already to give a shit. The cold plastic felt amazing against his sweltering skin. 

“It’s all bullshit,” San groaned. 

“Did something happen?” Wooyoung asked, placing a hand against San’s back. 

Where to even start. 

San laughed into his hands. “I was at a funeral tonight, for Agent Byun. I didn’t feel guilty. I didn’t feel shit. I got plastered and danced in the fountain, then I climbed out the window and caught a cab here. When you weren’t answering the door, I—I thought you—“ San lifted his head to look at Wooyoung. 

“You thought I’d leave without saying goodbye?” Wooyoung finished for him.

“Yeah, kinda…” 

Wooyoung smiled, the kind that made San’s heart feel like it had been zapped by an electric eel. “You idiot, you’re the whole reason I’m still here,” he admitted sheepishly.

He was? Wooyoung didn’t want to leave the Ruby because of San? Somehow, it didn’t compute. San stared into Wooyoung’s eyes, searching for something to say. His beautiful, brown eyes, dark as chocolate and sparkly like the night sky. Drunkenness aside, Wooyoung’s beauty alone was enough to make San’s head spin. He was sexy, adorable, and pretty all at once, like god had thrown in every possible good trait into one breathtaking person. San didn’t ever want to tear his eyes away. 

“I don’t want you to go,” San breathed, vocalizing the only coherent thought in his head. 

Wooyoung laughed. “I told you, I’m not—“

San cut him off with a kiss. He kept his hands glued to Wooyoung’s face, feeling the warmth of his cheeks in his palms, brushing his thumbs lightly over his skin. Wooyoung’s hands fell to San’s waist, reciprocating the kiss gently, unhurried and tender. San sighed softly through his nose, melting against Wooyoung’s lips like it was everything he ever needed, because it was—in San’s tipsy, scrambled brain, at least. 

Usually, their kisses were only a prelude to sex, rough and sloppy, tongues and saliva everywhere as they raced to get their clothes off. This time was different; it was sweet and uncharacteristically innocent, their lips brushing together softly without frenzied tongues or wandering hands. San just wanted to feel him, for a second, a minute, an hour. He would have been perfectly content to stay like this forever, frozen in time with Wooyoung’s lips chastely pressed against his. 

Wooyoung pulled back eventually, eyes hooded as they flickered over San’s face from just a few inches away. He looked lost for words, his lips parted silently in preparation to speak, but San went first. 

“Whenever a hybrid gets arrested, for a second I’m always so scared it’s you, and—I can’t do it. If they ever caught you I—I don’t know what I would do.”

“Like I would ever get caught,” Wooyoung teased lightly. 

“I can’t help it. When I hear them say _hybrid_ I think of you, and I just—god, I feel like I’m losing my mind,” San groaned, running his hands through his damp hair. He let out a heavy sigh, then met Wooyoung’s gaze with more seriousness than before. “I’m leaving the Special Ops.” 

San’s words carried such conviction he surprised even himself a little, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. Truthfully, he hadn’t thought of leaving before, but after tonight’s chaos the idea of eating glass was more favorable. There was no place for him there, not anymore. The badge he once worked so hard to attain, bore so proudly in his hands—the badge that gave him a sense of purpose and belonging, like he was part of something bigger and more important than himself—was worthless to him. It was fool’s gold, just a cheap excuse for people to kill without reprimand. 

What would seventeen year old San say if he could see himself now? Would he be disappointed? Angry that San would throw away everything he worked for to run away with some low-life, drug-slinging, blood-drinking criminal? What about his parents—what would they think? Would they be upset at him for throwing away his dreams, or would they be proud of him for not blindly following orders like some kind of factory drone? What kinds of faces would they make, watching him from up in heaven? 

Not that San believed in heaven. Maybe he had, at one point, but not anymore. Not for a long, long time. If there was a heaven, San wouldn’t be going there anyway. He’d booked himself a one-way ticket straight to hell, flying first class with a mimosa in hand and a smile on his lips. 

And, who knows—maybe Wooyoung would be there with him. 

“You’re… really serious, aren’t you?” Wooyoung breathed in astonishment. 

“I don’t belong there, Wooyoung. I don’t, I—” San stammered, too many broken thoughts to form a proper statement. 

_I belong here, with you._

The decision to drink an entire bottle of champagne was coming back to bite him, as evident by the nausea compounding in his gut, and San had to fight the urge to vomit. He desperately wanted to say what was on his mind, but the words got stuck in his chest, bottlenecking in his throat as they all tried to fly out at once. 

“I’m—I—” 

_Take me with you. Don’t leave. You’re the only thing I care about. The idea of not having you in my life makes me feel empty and I don’t know why but I hate it and you’re the most beautiful person I’ve ever seen in my life and I could stare at your face forever because the only time I feel happy is when you’re smiling and—_

Oh, fuck. 

San stood up and sprinted to the bathroom, barely able to shove his face into the toilet bowl before puking up the contents of his stomach. All the champagne from earlier came rushing back up, burning his throat like he’d taken shots of battery acid. He vomited for what felt like hours, until his stomach was empty and his retching turned to pathetic dry heaving. He passed out eventually, his cheek squished uncomfortably against the cold toilet seat, too plastered to do anything about it. 

Through his hazy state of consciousness—or lack thereof—he became mildly aware of his wet clothes being stripped off and replaced with dry ones. San grumbled incoherently at the sound of Wooyoung’s voice trying to coax him up off the floor, but that would have required San’s limbs to work, which they didn’t. He groaned sleepily and wrapped his arms around Wooyoung’s neck, letting Wooyoung lift him up and carry him to bed. 

The bed felt amazing against his tired bones, and Wooyoung’s body even more so. San hugged him tighter, burying his face into Wooyoung’s chest like it was keeping him alive. 

“Don’ go,” San mumbled against Wooyoung’s shirt, the warmth of his skin radiating through the fabric right into San’s very soul. 

_Don’t go_ could have meant a lot of things at that moment. Wooyoung seemed to understand, tossing the comforter over their bodies and pulling San closer. 

It was the first time San had fallen asleep in his arms, and in his drunken, cloudy state of mind, he hoped it wouldn’t be the last.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> woah we got a lil in-denial mutual pining happening in this chapter whaaaat that’s crazy 
> 
> tumblr @ yungwooyoung
> 
> twitter @yungwooyoung idk how to use twitter yet be nice to me 
> 
> playlist for this fic that goes hard as fuck if you wanna check it out [here!!](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/5eGeySTdOkbL7GnwxifYW7?si=Srtv7kQNSbyvS_ZwvoA6hg)


	17. it's eating me alive

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> things are happening. exciting things

San was immediately grateful for the thick blackout curtains covering the windows of Wooyoung’s hotel room, shielding his poor, hungover eyes from the harsh sun. It also meant he had no idea what time it was, but it didn’t really matter. It was his day off, he was hungover as fuck, and Wooyoung was big-spooning him with his arms loosely slung over San’s waist. San had crashed at Wooyoung’s place too many times to count, but never _with_ Wooyoung. Wooyoung always had nocturnal shit to do, leaving San to crash alone in his bed. It was a nice change. Very cozy. Domestic, even. 

Wooyoung stirred as he felt San move, letting out a small, sleepy groan as he lifted his head. “Hey,” he mumbled, not quite awake. “How’re you feeling?”

“I feel like shit,” San croaked, rubbing the sleep out of his puffy eyes. “Been worse, I guess.”

He’d had worse hangovers, indeed. San puked up most of the alcohol he’d drank, so he mostly just felt hollow, and painfully hungry. He’d kill for some scrambled eggs smothered in cheese. Maybe Wooyoung would let him order room service. His mouth also felt dry, like his throat was coated in sandpaper, and he rolled out of bed in search of some water. Wooyoung sat up, groaning as he stretched his arms out in front of him, fumbling a hand around on his nightstand for his phone to check the time. 

San swayed as he stood, bracing a hand against the bed to keep himself from tumbling onto the floor. His body protested the action, his tired joints creaking like he’d swapped souls with a ninety year old man. The clothes he was wearing weren’t his, he realized eventually, and Wooyoung’s scent clung to the soft fabric of his borrowed shirt, unique and inexplicably soothing. San didn’t have a great memory of what happened after he passed out with his face glued to the toilet seat, but he was grateful for Wooyoung’s caregiving nonetheless. 

One wobbly step at a time, he made his way into the kitchen, grabbing a bottle of water from the fridge and chugging it before he died of thirst. He swished some around in his mouth to rid himself of the nasty, lingering vomit taste. Very sexy. He spat it into the sink and headed back to the bedroom. Wooyoung was sitting up in bed, combing his fingers through his hair, a cute, sleepy pout on his face. San felt a surge of affection at the sight. 

San flopped back into bed, burrowing himself in the comforter and wrapping his arms around Wooyoung’s waist.

“Do you remember what you said last night? About quitting the Ops?” Wooyoung asked quietly, brushing a few strands of hair from San’s eyes with gentle fingers. 

Right, yeah. Last night was a mess. Memories of splashing around in the fountain, singing into an empty champagne bottle like a microphone, and Yunho carrying him to the bathroom flooded back into San’s mind like some kind of weird movie. 

_Yunho_. Fuck, that’s right. He left Yunho waiting in the hallway after climbing out of the window and escaping like a lunatic. San wondered what in the world Yunho must be thinking right now. There was also the matter of Yunho confessing his love for San, which was a disaster in and of itself that San was not looking forward to addressing. How the hell could San ever hope to face him again? 

Well… maybe he _didn’t_ have to. San had been hammered when he'd talked about quitting the Ops, but his sober mind still agreed. He’d rather pull his teeth out than go back to that shithole ever again, if last night’s behavior didn’t get him fired already. Not that it mattered. The entire Special Ops division was as good as dead to him. He wanted nothing to do with a bunch of robots who hunted hybrids like a competitive sport. 

Yunho… well, Yunho he didn’t really want to think about. 

“Yeah, I do. I meant it,” San said with conviction. He’d been wasted, but not blacked out. The memories were a bit hazy, but they were certainly there. 

“You’re crazy,” Wooyoung breathed.

“Ha, I know. I’m out of my goddamn mind, aren’t I?” San laughed, rolling onto his side to face Wooyoung. “I can’t stay there anymore. It’s eating me alive, living like this. I can’t keep it up much longer.”

Wooyoung slid down into the bed next to San, his expression one that San didn’t quite know how to decode. 

“You’d really leave the Ops?” Wooyoung rested his cheek into his hand.

“I can’t keep doing this and expect to stay sane. I look at everyone in the Ops, and I just… I just see enemies. Like _they’re_ the bad guys. And—and now my best friend, he…” San trailed off with an anguished groan. “I fucked up. I really fucked up, and I’m getting the hell out before it’s too late.”

What he meant by that, he wasn’t really sure. San felt a sort of anxiety under his skin at all times, like an impending storm was looming just out of frame. 

“Are you really serious? You can never go back, you know. They’ll never forgive you.” 

“They can go to hell. I’m—god, the only time I feel sane is when I’m with you,” San admitted with a laugh. 

“Even then, that’s not saying much,” Wooyoung teased, and San gave him a light shove. 

“Gee, thanks.” 

Wooyoung paused, biting his lip as he thought. “I uh… I kinda fucked up too. Yeosang ditched me—said he didn’t wanna be business partners anymore,” Wooyoung sighed. 

“He did? Why?” San’s eyebrows shot up in surprise. 

Wooyoung gave a soft laugh. “Why do you think?” 

San didn’t know how to respond, so he chose not to linger on it. He remembered the announcement given to his team before the funeral—the Hotel Ruby case was as good as dead. They couldn’t gather enough evidence for a warrant, and having agents stake the place out was a waste of manpower. San had so much on his plate recently that he almost forgot, but it meant Wooyoung no longer had to worry about bumping into agents left and right. 

“They’re closing the case at the Ruby, you know. They never found anything, so they’re moving our resources elsewhere,” San informed him. Not that it really mattered, since Wooyoung was ditching the Ruby and burning all the evidence regardless. 

“When?” 

“In a week. I’m gonna see it through to the end, and then…” he trailed off, searching Wooyoung’s face like it held the answers to all of his problems.

Wooyoung brushed a hand over San’s cheek, his touch featherlight. “Think about it, ok? And if—if you still want to leave it all behind, you know where to find me.” 

_Leave it all behind._

“Yeah. I will,” San breathed. 

San was close enough to see every detail of Wooyoung’s face, even in the dim light of the curtained room. 

“And… and if you do come back, we’ll blow up the lab and get the fuck outta dodge.”

“Where to?”

“Anywhere you want.” 

_Anywhere._

San’s heart soared at the staggering number of possibilities. The first thing he wanted to do was sink his badge in the ocean. He wanted to burn all of his documents and smash his phone with a hammer, destroying every trace of himself from existence. He wanted to see the look on every agent’s face at his tragic disappearance, solemnly mourning his apparent death. Would they have a funeral for him? Even better—he should crash the funeral with guns ablaze, putting a bullet through each of their skulls like an angel of death.

San wouldn’t have to pretend to be someone else anymore. He could burn his mask and let himself live freely, his own way. No excuses or alibis, just freedom, just him and Wooyoung. Hell, maybe they could go on a real date for once. San imagined kissing him under the moonlight on the pier overlooking the bay, the salty air still and quiet save for the splash of the seawater against the docks. He imagined Wooyoung’s calm smile, moonlight reflected in his eyes like stars, drawing San in like a lost ship in a storm. Maybe San was a little bit of a closet romantic. 

Wooyoung smiled at him, and it was just as beautiful as the one in his fantasies, if not more. San’s heart swelled at the idea of running away, skipping a few beats before quickening into a giddy, tachycardic rhythm. San felt like a child, sugar high and running away from home, no rules, just fun. That summarized their relationship pretty well, actually— _no rules, just fun._ Wooyoung was like a storm, and San was a hopeless dinghy swept up in his chaos, loving every moment of it.

“God,” San breathed, his lips ghosting over Wooyoung’s. “You’re so fucking beautiful.”

Wooyoung’s expression was something between joy and anguish as he dragged San in close, kissing him with an urgency that left them both breathless. Wooyoung rolled on top of San, pinning him to the bed with the weight of his body, cupping San’s face in his hands like he was something too precious to let go of. San’s arms snaked around Wooyoung’s back, hugging the smallest part of his waist in a tight hold. San kissed back like Wooyoung was the oxygen tank keeping him alive, hugging him like letting go would mean certain death. There was no roughness, no crude scrape of fangs against his tongue. Just soft kisses, gentle yet demanding, like San was also the one keeping Wooyoung alive. 

Wooyoung pulled back just enough to meet San’s eyes, panting through parted lips. “You better come with me, Choi San,” he breathed, commanding, pleading, _begging_. 

Hell, with the way Wooyoung was looking at him, San would probably cut off his own two legs if he were to ask. 

San couldn’t help the smile that blossomed across his face. “So, you’re finally admitting you like my company, is that it?”

“Never,” Wooyoung grinned, pressing his lips to San’s once again. 

Wooyoung led the kiss with deep, slow drags of his tongue, patient enough to have finesse, but urgent enough to make San’s head spin. His thumbs brushed over San’s cheeks with a carefulness that made San feel like he was made of paper mache. San licked into Wooyoung’s mouth more fervently, deepening the kiss, grinding his hips up with a soft grunt, their hardening cocks dragging together through the fabric of their underwear. San’s hands wandered down, slipping into Wooyoung’s boxers to knead at his soft ass. 

Wooyoung pressed his hips down, rutting against San’s with a soft sigh. San’s heart was pounding in his chest, every touch an electric shock as Wooyoung ran his hands down San’s chest, and San wondered if he could feel his pulse beneath his palms. San felt breathless, like every molecule of oxygen was being sucked out of his lungs as Wooyoung kissed him, panting as he succumbed to it. It was unlike anything he’d ever felt before, like his chest was on fire, every nerve in his body alight with a warmth that didn’t burn, only healed. Like the feeling of Wooyoung’s skin against his own was the solution to his every ailment, psychological or otherwise. 

It was just a kiss, yet somehow it felt _incredible_. Wooyoung felt like Christmas morning, like the joyful thrill of waking up to a pile of presents, flickering rainbow lights bouncing off tinsel bows and shiny wrapping, the smell of pine and cookies permeating his very soul with its warmth. The same feeling, but instead of pine and cookies, Wooyoung smelled like… _Wooyoung_. Something indescribable and unique that made San want to melt against him. For the first time since losing his parents, San felt… happy? He wasn’t sure if he even knew what happiness felt like, and he sure as hell hadn’t had a real Christmas since then, but Wooyoung kissed him like he was trying to heal each and every crack in San’s broken, defective heart. 

And, honestly, it was working. 

Wooyoung slid his hands under San’s shirt, running his hands along his ribs, his abs, his chest, kissing down San’s neck, so desperate yet so gentle that San could barely think straight. San moaned as Wooyoung ran his tongue over the base of his throat, sucking softly at the sensitive skin just above his clavicle. San knew how badly Wooyoung wanted to sink his teeth into his neck, and a chill of anticipation ran down his spine as the realization hit—if San left the Ops, Wooyoung could bite his neck all he wanted, no longer worried about leaving marks. He only had to wait one more week, but _god_ , he wanted it so bad. 

Wooyoung pushed San’s shirt up over his abs, and San hurriedly shucked it off. Wooyoung followed suit, tossing his shirt to the side before leaning back down to place ardent, open-mouthed kisses along San’s chest. Wooyoung slid a hand over San’s boxers and squeezed, giving San a sultry look through his dark lashes as he licked along the contours of San’s abs. Wooyoung’s gaze sucked the breath right out of San’s lungs with its ferocity, dark irises burning into his own with an intensity that was almost frightening—like he was claiming San as _his_. 

San would be lying if he said he didn’t love it. 

San moaned at the hand squeezing his cock through his boxers—or Wooyoung’s boxers, technically, since he’d borrowed them—bucking his hips up to increase the friction. Wooyoung worked his way down, kissing along San’s abs and down his hip bones, mouthing softly over the fabric of his underwear. He hooked his fingers into the elastic and tugged San’s boxers down, wasting no time wrapping a hand around San’s achingly hard cock. There was no teasing or taunting this time, no tormenting as Wooyoung forced San to beg for his touch. Instead, Wooyoung wrapped his lips around the head of San’s cock, quickly taking it into his mouth like he was hungry for it. 

“Mm, fuck,” San moaned, his head falling back against the pillow as Wooyoung sealed his soft lips around the tip and sucked. 

Wooyoung flicked his tongue across the slit, lapping up the bead of precum as he wrapped a hand around the shaft, another shaky moan spilling from San’s lips. Wooyoung took more into his mouth, his tongue sliding along the underside of San’s cock as he sank his head down, his eyes fluttering shut once it hit the back of his throat. Wooyoung hollowed his cheeks, sucking in earnest, and San was so used to Wooyoung teasing the shit out of him that it was almost shocking. 

“You’re being so nice to me,” San laughed. It was a little weird, but he sure wasn’t complaining. 

“Mm, am I? I can stop if you want,” Wooyoung smirked, pulling off with a pop. 

“Don’t stop— _definitely_ don’t stop.” It was certainly a nice change not having to beg for Wooyoung to stop teasing him. 

Wooyoung gave a light laugh, smiling up at San before taking him back into his mouth, and for a moment it had almost looked… _affectionate_? It made San’s heart do a flip, on top of already beating in double time. He groaned as Wooyoung began bobbing his head, cheeks hollowed while his fist pumped along the shaft in time with each suck. San combed his fingers through Wooyoung’s hair, gently pushing it out of his eyes while he worked. God, he looked gorgeous. San couldn’t tear his eyes away, not that he wanted to. He would have been perfectly content watching Wooyoung suck his cock until the end of time. 

Wooyoung pulled off suddenly, looking at San through hooded eyes as he stuck two fingers into his mouth. He sucked them for a few moments until they were coated, a lewd string of saliva connecting to his lips when he pulled them out. He brought them between San’s legs, teasing his entrance with a gentle touch, and San granted permission with a soft, breathy moan. Wooyoung took San’s cock back into his mouth as he pushed one finger in, the sensations of both at once making San’s abs flex and his back arch. 

Wooyoung slid his finger in as far as he could before his hand barred him, easing it out then back in as he hollowed his cheeks around San’s cock. Wooyoung’s tongue was incredible on its own—being fingered and sucked off at the same time was enough to make San’s brain short-circuit. He completely forgot about being hungover, outweighed by the pleasure tenfold. Wooyoung bobbed his head as he slowly pumped his finger, stroking it against San’s walls as he sucked. 

“Ah— _fuck_ , Wooyoung,” San cursed, biting his lip as the pleasure grew stronger, and Wooyoung took it as his cue to add another. 

San grasped at the sheets as Wooyoung slid a second finger inside, cheeks hollowed as he continued sucking. San’s moaning grew louder and more frequent as Wooyoung’s fingers moved faster inside of him, finding the perfect spot to stroke with the pads of his fingertips until San was arching his back and writhing beneath him. San fisted one hand into Wooyoung’s hair and the other in the sheets, bucking his hips up at the multitude of sensations. 

“Fuck—holy _shit_ that’s so good,” San panted, his head digging into the pillow as he writhed. 

Wooyoung pumped his fingers in time to his head bobbing, forming a quick pace that had San nearly crying out. San moaned and cursed unintelligibly, the muscles in his abdomen flexing uncontrollably as he writhed against the bed, bucking his hips up into Wooyoung’s mouth and grinding down onto his fingers like he couldn’t make up his mind. His legs twitched around Wooyoung’s head involuntarily, and Wooyoung had to hold him down with his free hand. San was already getting close, and with the way Wooyoung was handling him, he wasn’t gonna last much longer. 

“A-ah, ok ok ok—” San tightened a pleading hand in Wooyoung’s hair, and Wooyoung pulled off of San’s cock with a lewd sound. Wooyoung pumped his fingers slowly inside San, leaning down to kiss along his stomach. 

“You’re hungover, let me do the work,” Wooyoung purred against San’s abs, working his mouth up along his sternum with slow kisses. 

“You’re being so— _ah_ —sweet today,” San laughed, squirming against Wooyoung as he gave one final stroke before pulling his fingers out. 

“You had a pretty rough night.” He rolled away for a second to reach into the drawer of the nightstand, quickly producing a bottle of lube and positioning himself between San’s legs.

“Mm, I feel so spoiled.”

Wooyoung kissed along San’s neck, pushing San’s legs apart to give himself room. He slicked his cock with lube, scooting forward to position it against San’s entrance. San felt dizzy with anticipation as he watched, his body aching with the desire to feel Wooyoung’s cock inside of him. 

“Don’t get used to it,” Wooyoung teased, shooting San a coy smile. 

“Maybe I should get wasted more often, if this kind of treatment I get,” San joked back, biting his lip as Wooyoung’s cock brushed his entrance. 

Wooyoung gave a small _pfft_ in response as he pressed forward, slowly easing his cock in starting with just the head. San’s head fell back against the pillow, hands clenching the sheets at the stretch. Wooyoung sighed as he pushed his cock in further, his gaze flitting up to meet San’s. There it was again—that look—dark, intense, _possessive_ , but underneath it was something else, something softer. For a flickering moment, Wooyoung looked more vampire than human, his lips parted to reveal his sharp fangs and his eyes burning into San’s with something raw and carnivorous—like San was _his_ , and his alone. It sent a shiver down San’s spine in the best possible way, and his heart fluttered at the idea of Wooyoung wanting him. 

The expression melted away as Wooyoung’s face twisted with a pleasured moan, his cock buried to the hilt inside San. Wooyoung leaned forward, pushing San’s legs toward his shoulders, catching San’s lips in a deep kiss. Wooyoung gave a soft thrust, rocking his hips forward just enough to have San moaning into his mouth. San wrapped his arms around Wooyoung’s neck, needily reciprocating the kiss like they couldn’t be close enough. Wooyoung’s chest burned against his, San’s heart continuously thumping against his ribcage from arousal and… whatever else that was. He couldn’t think straight, not with Wooyoung’s cock buried in his ass and his tongue down his throat. 

Wooyoung rolled his hips, fucking San slowly, languidly, like he was savoring every stroke. San loved it when Wooyoung took control, using his hybrid abilities to his advantage, holding San down against the bed, fucking him mercilessly until he was a whining, drooling mess. This time, though, Wooyoung wasn’t trying to make him scream. He took his time rocking into San, in a slow, lazy rhythm as he kissed every moan from San’s mouth, careful and sweet. It fucked with San’s head a little bit, and made his heart do gymnastics in his chest. He really should get wasted more often if it meant getting to see this side of Wooyoung. 

His heart twisted at the idea that, maybe, _just maybe_ , it wasn’t only because San was hungover. With the way Wooyoung had practically begged San to come away with him— _you better come with me, Choi San_ —and the way he’d looked at San like he was _his_ , and fucked him like he wanted to savor every moment—well, maybe San’s complicated, fucked up feelings for him weren’t all that one-sided. 

“Fuck!” San cried suddenly at a hard, deep thrust, clawing at Wooyoung’s back with blunt fingernails. 

Wooyoung kissed down San’s neck, quickening the pace of his thrusts as he nibbled just below San’s jaw, fangs ghosting ticklishly over his skin. San felt Wooyoung’s tongue trailing along the pulsing artery in his neck, and he let out a breathy moan, feeling his pitch rise in his throat as Wooyoung’s cock pounded him deeper. Wooyoung’s fangs hovering just over his skin reminded him of the day they met—the feeling of fangs sinking into San’s flesh permanently etched in his memories. San craved it, and he knew Wooyoung did too. 

“Can’t wait— _ah_ —for you to—bite me,” San panted, breathless as Wooyoung fucked him, his cock so deep and _so good_. Wooyoung moaned at his words, sucking hard just under San’s jaw. 

“Yeah? You want everyone to see that you’re mine?” Wooyoung purred through his teeth, his hot breath tickling the sensitive skin of San’s neck. 

_Mine_. 

The word echoed in San’s head, ringing in his ears like music. He thought of Wooyoung’s lips sealed against his skin, fangs buried in his flesh as he sucked at San’s neck, moaning in pleasure as blood washed over his tongue. San tipping his head back as Wooyoung drank, surrendering himself completely to his touch. Wooyoung’s tongue lapping the wound, soothing the sting like morphine. San’s neck marked up with bites and bruises, displaying to the whole world that Wooyoung had drank from him. That he was Wooyoung’s.

San did want it. 

“A-ah, _fuck_ , Wooyoung—” San whined, fingernails digging into Wooyoung’s back as his thrusts grew harder. 

“Fuck, you’d look so good—all marked up. So fucking pretty for me,” Wooyoung gritted, squeezing San’s thighs harder as he folded him in half. 

Wooyoung’s cock slammed into him, fucking the air out of San’s lungs as he grew closer to the edge, and San couldn’t help the pathetic cries tearing from his throat. His hands fisted in the sheets above his head as his knees touched his shoulders, breathlessly pinned to the mattress. Wooyoung’s cock felt so deep from this position, and San was truly thankful for his flexibility in times like this. Years of taekwondo paid off in unexpected ways. Sweat beaded along San’s forehead and his back arched off the bed as Wooyoung pounded him at the perfect angle, profanities flying from his lips amidst his broken moans of pleasure. 

“So— _ah_ —so close,” San panted, clawing at the sheets like a madman. Wooyoung was breathing heavily against his neck, his thrusts breaking pattern into a rough, stuttering rhythm. San felt a hand clench around his cock, pumping along the shaft in messy strokes, and the sound San let out would have been embarrassing if not for his brain currently being sex-fried. 

“ _Fuck_ , baby—” Wooyoung gritted through his teeth, stroking San’s cock in time to his sloppy thrusts. He laced his fingers together with San’s using his free hand, the gesture so intimate and sudden that San’s heart practically leapt out of his chest. San squeezed his hand, holding onto Wooyoung for dear life as he fucked him over the edge with a broken cry. 

San didn’t even register the pet name, his climax hitting so hard it was like all language had vanished from his brain. He came in thick ribbons all over his chest, his cock flexing in Wooyoung’s hand and his back arching off the bed. His whole body tensed up as waves of pleasure consumed him, tightening around Wooyoung’s cock and sending him over the edge as well. Wooyoung went still, groaning against San’s shoulder as he came. San melted against the bed as exhaustion hit, breathing hard underneath Wooyoung’s sweaty torso crushing him. 

Wooyoung unlaced their fingers, rolling to the side and flopping an arm over San’s ribs, panting hard against San’s shoulder. San felt a small twinge of sadness at the loss of Wooyoung’s hand in his, but he was too exhausted to dwell on it. Wooyoung was snuggled up against his side, skin burning against San’s, which was more than enough. In a moment of clarity, San remembered what Wooyoung had said to him. 

“What did you call me?” San asked, a smug smile creeping up onto his face. 

“Nothing,” Wooyoung mumbled, hiding his face in embarrassment. 

“Mm, you called me _baby_ just now.”

“Nuh-uh,” Wooyoung grumbled into the pillow, burying his face in it as San looked over at him with a grin. San laughed at his obvious denial. 

“Uh-huh,” San teased, poking him in the side. He paused. “I kinda… I kinda liked it,” he admitted, his cheeks heating up a little. 

Wooyoung snickered, pulling San closer against his chest, sweaty hair hanging over his tired eyes. San shifted to a more comfortable position, reaching down for the comforter to pull it over their naked bodies. The hungover feeling was slowly creeping back, and San wanted nothing more than to become one with the bed. Wooyoung was clearly tired, too, given that he wasn’t used to being awake well into the bright hours of morning. Wooyoung gave a contented sigh as San snuggled up next to him, running his fingers along Wooyoung’s back in little swirls. Wooyoung shivered a little, and San gave a soft, amused laugh. Cute. 

“Mm, feels nice,” Wooyoung mumbled, his eyelids drifting shut with exhaustion. San continued running his fingers along his back, making slow patterns along his skin. 

San’s stomach growled audibly, and he felt Wooyoung laugh against him. 

“Can I order room service later?” San asked, torn between wanting food and wanting to melt into the bed in Wooyoung’s arms. 

“Whatever you want, _baby_ ,” Wooyoung teased. Despite the obvious sarcasm, it still made San feel strangely giddy. 

San felt like he’d woken up in a parallel dimension where Wooyoung was sweet and affectionate, and their relationship hilariously domestic. Not that it was a bad thing. San just wasn’t used to Wooyoung being so cute. Well, he was cute all the time, but not _this_ cute. Never this sleepy, guard-down, snuggly type of cute. San could get used to it. 

Maybe he _would_ get used to it, after leaving the Ops. It felt almost too good to be true. 

San decided that food could wait a bit. He was too cozy to get up, and it would have been cruel to make Wooyoung move from his comfortable position. San stayed put, perfectly content running his fingers along Wooyoung’s back, drawing little shapes and lines until Wooyoung’s breathing began to even out as he drifted off to sleep. His chest rose and fell in a steady rhythm, lips parted ever so slightly, and San thought he’d never looked so human. He was beautiful, truly, so much so that San’s heart felt like it could burst. 

He wanted nothing more than to stay like that forever, cradling Wooyoung against his chest, listening to the sound of his soft breath and feeling the contours of his back as he caressed his skin beneath his fingertips. Silver strands of hair fell in front of his eyes, and San gently brushed them out of the way, watching how his dark lashes fluttered against his cheeks ever so slightly. He would gladly pay any price to hold Wooyoung in his arms indefinitely, and the implications of that scared him a little.

San desperately wanted to run far away from his life in the Ops, but the desire to run straight into Wooyoung’s arms was an equally strong force. Like a gravitational pull, he yearned for Wooyoung when he wasn’t around, his body aching with the need to feel his touch. His mind was consumed with images of his smile, the shape of his eyes when he laughed, his distinct, intoxicating scent that San couldn’t describe no matter how hard he tried. Like a sickness, it took over his mind, clouding all sense of reason as it grew. 

San placed a gentle kiss on the top of Wooyoung’s head, his sex-tousled hair tickling the tip of San’s nose. He looked so harmless like this, nothing at all like the monster that people made him out to be. He was easily the most beautiful person San had ever seen, like an angel lying asleep in his arms. San was able to forget about everything else and just savor his warmth, like nothing mattered except the way it felt to hold him. No Special Ops, no funerals, no Yunho. Just Wooyoung, sleeping peacefully in his arms. 

His heart gave an arrhythmic flip in his chest, aching tangibly like a meat cleaver had rent his atria in two. The kind of pain that was followed by a surge of warmth leaking into his veins like morphine, buzzing under his skin and twisting in his stomach. The kind of pain that wasn’t really pain at all, and sent his head reeling in a hurricane of disjointed thoughts, all of which seemed to be centered around Wooyoung. It left one single question burning in his core like a flame.

Did he... _love_ Wooyoung?

Yeah.

Yeah, he did.

San stared up at the ceiling of the Hotel Ruby’s lounge for the last time. Everything seemed so melancholic when saying goodbye. 

The dragon statue on the ceiling illuminated the room with its flaming breath, rosy light washing everyone’s faces in hues of pink. Music filled his ears and people danced all around him, but San couldn’t find the desire within him to get up and join. Instead, he leaned his elbows on the cool surface of the bartop, pushing ice around in his water glass with his straw. It clinked around pitifully, and San wished he hadn’t been banned from drinking. He kind of deserved it, though, after making a complete fool of himself at the funeral. 

San and his teammates were supposed to be celebrating the closure of the Ruby case—the closure still somehow called for a celebration even though the case went nowhere, apparently—but San’s heart weighed heavily in his chest, too heavily to get up and dance. Yunho, Mingi, and Jongho were a few drinks in, laughing and spinning around in the sea of dancing bodies, unaware it would be the last time they ever saw San. 

San would be lying if he said he wasn’t a bit sad about it. They were like family, after all.

It was San’s final night as an Ops. After tonight, he was a free man. No more Agent Choi—he was as good as dead. Agent Choi was just a fever dream, a flimsy mask soon to be shed. No more orders, no more missions, no more teammates… 

No more Yunho. 

Thinking about Yunho was like rubbing salt in a fresh wound. A festering, infected wound that San had been neglecting. Ever since San had left him high and dry at the funeral, they’d been avoiding each other like the plague. If Yunho had been acting cold after their last fight, then this time was absolute zero. Colder than cold. And San was, too, because he didn't know how else to act. At first, San thought Yunho was just trying to give him space, or maybe he was too afraid to face San after his unrequited love confession, but now it was obvious their relationship was deeply fractured, probably beyond repair. Yunho hadn't spoken a word to him all night, and the others didn't try to press the matter. They came to have a good time, not to open up a nasty, rotten can of worms. Things had just been weird ever since the funeral, like it was a taboo subject everyone was scared to talk about, and for good reason. He'd gone and fucked everything up, like usual, but soon it wouldn't matter.

San was choosing to amputate the wound rather than treat it. 

At midnight, San would hop into Wooyoung’s Audi, putting the Ruby and his old life as an Ops in the rear view mirror. He had a duffel full of clothes waiting for him at home, a bag stuffed with cash after emptying his bank account, and he was mere hours away from a whole new life. Just him, Wooyoung, and a trunk full of firearms. Where they would go, San had no idea, but it didn’t matter. He didn’t care, so long as he had Wooyoung. 

San had come to terms with the way he felt, and he would have to say it out loud eventually. He didn’t have a speech prepared or anything, and frankly, he had no idea what the hell to say. He’d never felt that way toward anyone before, and putting it into words was like trying to say the alphabet backwards after a dozen tequila shots. Well, there _was_ a word, but he’d never said it to anyone but his parents before in his entire life. 

He _loved_ Wooyoung. 

If it felt weird to say in his mind, he could only imagine how weird it would feel on his tongue. It made him nervous and excited all at once, his skin buzzing with electricity and his heart beating in double time. San wanted to spend every waking second of his day—or night, after becoming nocturnal—staring into Wooyoung’s eyes, as dumb as that sounded. Something about Wooyoung simultaneously brought out his violent, rambunctious side, as well as his daydreaming, romantic side. It was a weird combination, to say the least. 

San sighed as he brought his straw to his lips, sipping his water as an alternative to staring off into space. Sadness, excitement, and anxiety swirled around in his chest, a miasma of emotion like a sandstorm. Saying goodbye to his teammates—his friends, his _family_ —was hard, no question, but he didn’t belong there. San knew he was making the right choice, he just prayed the ache he was feeling would fade away soon. 

“You look down. I wish I could get you a drink,” Val sympathized, leaning onto her elbows across the bar from San. The rest of her face was obscured with her usual black mask, but her eyes were sincere. 

“You and me both,” he agreed dryly. A drink was exactly what he needed. 

Oh, well. Soon enough, there wouldn’t be anyone out there telling him what he could or couldn’t do. 

“I heard from Wooyoung. You guys are running away together, huh?” she wiggled her eyebrows teasingly, keeping her voice down low. 

A sheepish smile spread across San’s face, and he looked down at his glass. The words made San’s heart skip a beat. _Running away together_ sounded so… corny. But still, it filled San with a warmth and happiness he hadn’t felt in a long, long time. 

“Something like that,” he laughed bashfully, swirling his ice around with his straw.

“I’ve never seen him this happy, you know. I think he’s really into you.” 

_Happy._ Wooyoung was happy, because of him? 

“What makes you say that?” San felt oddly embarrassed, his cheeks heating up a little. 

She hummed in thought. “I can’t explain it. He’s just… different.”

San thought back to his first impression of Wooyoung. A snarky, vicious hybrid, pinned against the ground with San’s blade at his throat. A flirt, even while faced with danger, leering up at San like he hadn’t just been shot. San imagined what his life would be like if things had turned out differently. What if he’d arrested Wooyoung? Dragged him to Confinement to be tortured and killed? Was there another San, in a different universe, who made that choice?

What if he’d never fallen in love with Wooyoung? 

San was glad to be part of this universe, perhaps for the first time in his life. This universe was cruel and fucked up, filled to the brink with injustice, corruption, violence, pain, suffering… yet San felt grateful to be a part of it. He’d had more than his fair share of grief, and maybe his head wasn’t screwed on quite right because of it, but he was able to meet Wooyoung, and for that, he was grateful. Maybe San was a little bit different, too.

Val spoke again, pulling San back to reality. 

“Also, San… thank you. For everything. I—“ Val cut herself off, her eyes flitting to San’s right just as he felt a hand grab him by the shoulder. 

“San!” 

It was Yunho’s voice. San spun around to look at him, startled. Yunho’s eyes were serious as he held his phone to his ear, eyebrows pinched as he listened to the speaker on the other line. 

“What’s wrong?” San demanded, anxiety prickling at his nerves. 

“We just got a tip. There’s a drug lab in the basement—they’ve been using it to manufacture sol. Backup is on the way, and—“

The fire alarms went off. 

San’s blood turned to ice, his stomach dropping straight to the floor like a dumbbell. He whipped his head around to look at Val, whose eyes were wide in shock. She looked just as confused as San felt, which meant something was very, very wrong. Yunho whipped his head around as the alarms pierced the air, his phone falling away from his ear as he scanned the room. 

San’s feet were moving before he had time to think. 

_Fire. The lab._

Something was wrong. The bombs weren't supposed to detonate until later, why the fuck were the alarms going off _now?_ And how the fuck did they get a tip about the lab? _Who_ the fuck? San didn't know anything, but deep in his chest, he had a bad, bad feeling. The place was soon to be flooded with agents after backup arrived, but he didn't have time to think about that. All he knew was that he had to get down to the lab as soon as possible, and San shoved through the crowd in an utter panic as he raced toward the stairwell. He heard Yunho calling his name, but he didn’t stop, sprinting down the stairs like a madman, his heart pounding in his ears over the sound of the alarms. Only one thought repeated over and over again in his mind:

_Wooyoung._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> then they ran away to commit happy gay crimes together wait wdym we still have almost ten chapters left. and it only took them 17 chapters to realize they kinda sorta like being in the same room as each other wow great job guys congrats
> 
> twitter & tumblr @ yungwooyoung
> 
> playlist for this fic that goes hard as fuck if you wanna check it out [here!!](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/5eGeySTdOkbL7GnwxifYW7?si=Srtv7kQNSbyvS_ZwvoA6hg)


	18. an eye for an eye, tooth for a tooth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> hey that was fast. and i'm sorry in advance

Wooyoung’s heart was a mess. 

He stayed in the shower for far too long, completely lost in thought. He stared absently at the whirlpool of water as it washed down the drain, the bathroom fogged up with steam like a sauna. Wooyoung didn’t notice. He was too lost in his own head, like he had been all week. Ever since he and San had their little… _moment_ , he found himself completely unable to focus on anything else. 

It really fucked with his head. And his heart, which started pounding all over again when he thought about San’s arms wrapped around him, hugging him close and stroking his fingers along Wooyoung’s back until he fell asleep. It was so… intimate. Wooyoung should have been freaked out. He was a little bit freaked out, since he’d never been so off his guard with someone before, but melting into San’s arms felt so good that Wooyoung hadn’t even cared. Who the hell was he anymore?

Wooyoung hadn’t seen San since that day, since he’d told San to think hard about his decision before committing to something so utterly life changing. If San left the Ops, there was no going back. They wouldn’t take too kindly to that kind of betrayal—treason and desertion carried harsh punishment. Wooyoung knew that all too well. San was to think it over for a week, then come back with his decision after closing the Ruby case. Rationally, Wooyoung knew San was dead serious about leaving, but there was still that small little voice in the back of his head chanting _but what if he doesn’t? What if he chooses to stay in the Ops?_

Wooyoung knew full well he was just being paranoid, but he couldn’t help it. His feelings for San weren’t something he was used to, and it made him feel like he was going insane. It felt like a form of psychosis, the way his brain involuntarily revolved around San like someone would crave a cigarette after a particularly shitty day. He _needed_ him. Not in a sexual way—which would have been easier to deal with—but in a deep, visceral, _agonizing_ way, like his heart was two beats from giving out every second San wasn’t touching him. 

It was irrational, illogical, and just plain stupid. Wooyoung was no scientist like Yeonjun, and he wasn’t as level-headed as Yeosang, but he was logical and smart as a whip, and an expert at self-preservation. Hell, he had to be, with the cards he’d been dealt. He kept all but a few people at arm’s length, a sheet of bulletproof glass between him and everyone else. He didn’t have any other choice—not if he wanted to survive. Survival as a hybrid meant things like romance and friendship had to be put on the back burner. Well, more like they couldn’t be on the stove at all. 

His friendship with Yeosang was a rarity among hybrids. Hybrids were self-serving and distant with each other, because they had to be. The risk of being backstabbed to serve one’s own interests was too high to go around making friends easily, and the ones that stuck had to be taken with a grain of salt. Giving too much information away meant certain death—the risk of other hybrids being tortured for information ever present. One hybrid being arrested put everyone in their immediate circle in danger, so it was best to keep circles small and airtight. As Wooyoung’s circle grew, so did the constant anxiety under his skin that _something_ could go wrong. 

If close friendships were a no-no, dating was a strict taboo. An unspoken law in the hybrid handbook. Getting too attached to someone was a recipe for disaster, and Wooyoung was Rachel fucking Ray. He wasn’t exactly sure when his playful hookups with San turned into something more, but things had snowballed worse and worse until he was completely, idiotically, head over heels for San. Their last encounter had sealed the deal, the final nail in his coffin of stupidity. The way San looked at him, held him, kissed him—he didn’t stand a chance. Wooyoung’s heart nearly stopped every time he envisioned San’s fingers laced with his, and San’s shy smile after Wooyoung slipped up and called him _baby_ in the heat of the moment. 

Goddamn, Wooyoung was an idiot. 

Yeosang was right, as always. Wooyoung was a massive fucking idiot, and he should have known his little sexual escapades would get him into trouble. He wasn’t known for being the world’s greatest decision maker, but this was bad, even for him. The more he tried to rationalize his way out of his feelings for San, the stronger they got, coming back with a vengeance just to spite him. Wooyoung had been trying to convince himself to cut San out of his life like an appendectomy, like San was the throbbing, inflamed appendix in the body cavity of his existence, but then San had shown up at his door drunk as fuck begging to run away with him. Just like that—poof. His good decision making skills flew right out the window. 

He was so fucked. 

Wooyoung understood Yeosang’s decision to cut him off, but it didn’t hurt any less. Yeosang had a good head on his shoulders, and he could sense the obvious danger in associating with San. Nothing personal, just survival. Wooyoung could sense the danger there as well, but there was a fog in his head lately that rerouted all of his priorities. He knew he was being a dumbass, but he couldn’t help it. Wooyoung desperately wished he could shut off his heart and wake the fuck up, and stop being in love with a _fucking cop_ , but if it were that easy, then he wouldn’t have let it happen at all. 

Ugh, _in love_. What the fuck. 

Wooyoung had come to terms with it, but no matter how many times he said those words in his head, they didn’t sound any less… _ugh_. 

Life was so much simpler as a callous drug dealer. 

Never in all his days did he think he’d be in this situation. Never in his days did he think anyone would be able to crack the shell around his heart and invade his mind like a parasite. San really was like a parasite—eating away at his brain and burrowing into his heart, occupying every crevice of Wooyoung’s mind with his intoxicating smile and adorable dimples and his ability to make Wooyoung laugh like the world wasn’t a cesspool of corruption. He made Wooyoung forget how fucked up the world was, for a little while. It made him feel like, instead of just surviving, he was actually _living._

San made him feel human. San _treated_ him like a human, and god knows Wooyoung hadn’t felt like one in a long time.

Wooyoung shut the water off, stepping out of the shower after what felt like hours. Time passed at an absolute crawl, every second ticking by torturously as he waited for the week to be up. He squeezed his hair dry with his towel before wrapping it around his waist, cold air hitting his skin as he left the steamy bathroom. Anxiety buzzed beneath his skin in a constant current, the fluttery feeling in his chest getting stronger the closer it got to midnight. He thought way too long about what to wear, like for some damn reason he needed the perfect outfit for blowing up the lab. It didn’t make any sense. 

Why the hell was he so _nervous?_

It was just San, but for some reason that in itself made his heart forget how to beat. San had seen him looking less than great on many occasions, but that was before… y’know. That was when San was just San—now he’s _San_. Now Wooyoung was all nervous to be around him for no goddamn reason, and his heart wouldn’t quit pounding like he’d just railed an entire eight ball of coke. It was ridiculous. It didn’t help that a tiny part of his mind kept screaming _what if San changes his mind?_

Thinking shit like that wasn’t going to help anything, so he tried to shove it away for the time being. Maybe San was already at the Ruby, killing time with his colleagues. Maybe midnight would roll around and San was nowhere to be seen, leaving Wooyoung to skip town alone and broken-hearted. No—not productive. He focused on getting dressed, throwing on a white button up and a black blazer. He left the top few buttons undone, because he knew San couldn’t keep it in his pants whenever he did that. He loved watching San drool over him—he was always so obvious about it. He loved when San couldn't keep his eyes up, his gaze naturally falling to Wooyoung's collarbone. He loved the way San's tongue would poke out from his lips, like he couldn't wait to taste Wooyoung's skin, and he loved the way San wanted him, like he'd waited all day for it. 

Well, now he just loved San in general.

His favorite clothes were packed into a suitcase, the rest he was leaving behind for the housekeepers to sort through. It was all designer, so he figured they wouldn’t mind. Money was no object for an established drug lord such as himself, and his collection had become too large to pack even half. He couldn't help it, shopping was one of the only things he had to occupy his free time, since cooking was off the table, and going to the gym was an utter waste of time. Wooyoung decided to rinse out the empty bottles he'd accumulated, trying to channel his anxiousness into something productive. He didn’t realize how much of a drinker he was until it was time to get rid of all the evidence. It took more liquor to get him drunk as a hybrid, so the bottles had a tendency to gather pretty quickly. He rinsed them one after another, setting them up neatly onto the counter to be disposed of, but it didn’t do much in the way of quelling his anxiety. 

Wooyoung checked his phone, the clock said 10:02. What the hell was he supposed to do for another two hours? Pace around his room? He was sick of feeling like a lovesick teenager, and he just wished he had some way to make his damn heart stop pounding. Years of suppressing his emotions wasn’t doing him any favors, that’s for sure. At least San seemed to be just as fucked up in the head—in his own way, at least—so it was a match made in heaven. Or hell, maybe. Semantics. It didn't help that Wooyoung had zilch in the way of actual dating experience, since he'd joined the army so young. Giving his high school crush a blowjob in the bathroom that one time didn't really count, since it hadn't been all that romantic—or good, for that matter. All of his sexual experiences that followed had been completely detached from emotion, so this thing with San was a whole new world for him.

Whatever this _thing_ was.

Wooyoung’s phone rang in his hand, startling him out of his racing thoughts. He half expected it to be Yeosang calling to apologize, but the number wasn’t one he recognized. Right, Yeosang wasn’t the type to drop something so easily. He was stubborn as hell, and so was Wooyoung, so an apology from either side wasn't in the cards anytime soon. They bickered all the time, but it was rare for them to have a fight where they weren’t speaking. Still, he was a little disappointed. He sighed and answered the call, holding it up to his ear with a confused frown. 

“J,” he answered, his usual greeting when speaking to clients. 

“Ah, Wooyoung?” an unfamiliar voice responded. Wooyoung could count on one hand the number of people who knew his real name, and this guy wasn’t one of them. 

“Who is this?” he demanded. 

“Sorry to bother you. Call me N. Do you have a minute?” 

Something about the friendly tone of the guy’s voice sent chills down Wooyoung’s spine. He’d never heard of anyone named N in his life, and the fact that he knew Wooyoung’s real name was a major red flag. 

“What do you want?” He kept his tone firm but neutral. 

“A little birdie told me you’re blowing up your laboratory tonight. I just wanna have a chat.”

Wooyoung’s stomach dropped to the floor. First Wooyoung’s real name, now the lab? Who the hell was this guy? What else did he know?

“How—how do you know about that?” Wooyoung demanded, panic beginning to set in. 

“How do I know about the lab, or how do I know about tonight’s plans? You and—oh, what was it— _Choi San?_ ”

Wooyoung’s blood boiled at the mention of San’s name, gripping his phone so tight the screen began to crack. _Had his room been bugged_? He whipped his head around, trying to figure out where he could have hidden one. Not that it mattered—N already had all the information he needed. Someone coming after Wooyoung was one thing—someone coming after San was a whole different ball game. He would crush every bone in the guy’s body if he so much as _looked_ at San. 

“What the hell do you want?” Wooyoung snarled. 

“Let’s talk in the lab. Feel free to come armed—it won’t make much difference either way. And relax, it’s not your boyfriend I’m after.”

N hung up. Wooyoung didn’t know what the hell to think. He shoved a pistol in his jacket and was out the door in ten seconds flat, mind reeling with questions as he raced down the stairwell to the second below ground level. _It won’t make much difference either way_ —what the fuck did that mean? Was N a hybrid? Guns still worked on hybrids, that’s for sure. Wooyoung didn’t have a clue what was going on, but the awful, sinking feeling in his stomach grew more intense the further he descended. 

Wooyoung’s pistol was in his hand the second he flew through the basement door, on high alert as he made his way down the hall. The laboratory door was wide open and the light was on, and Wooyoung gripped his gun tighter in his hands, raising it defensively as he approached. Was he walking straight into an ambush? He feared the worst, but he didn’t have much of a choice. He took a breath, then burst through the door gun-first, ready to fire at a moment’s notice. 

“You must be Wooyoung,” a voice called. 

The man was alone, which surprised Wooyoung a little. He was fidgeting with a rack of clean test tubes, seemingly unbothered by the gun raised at him. Was this N? 

“Who the hell are you?” Wooyoung spat. 

The man turned and gave Wooyoung a smile that chilled him to the core. Wooyoung got a good look at him—he’d definitely never seen this guy before in his life. He wasn’t visibly armed, but his relaxed posture set Wooyoung on edge in a way he couldn’t explain. He was taller than Wooyoung by a few inches, with dark hair that swept over his forehead and sharp, cat-like eyes.

“I’m N. You don’t know me, but you might remember my brother, Ravi. Ah, sorry—R.” 

N’s smile widened, but his eyes were cold as ice. Wooyoung caught a glimpse of fangs as he spoke. _Hybrid_. Fuck. 

R had a brother? They worked together for so long, it’s hard to believe Wooyoung wouldn’t have known about him. If R's brother had tracked Wooyoung down, he obviously wasn't too happy about his death. Had he come for revenge? It seemed strange that N would bug his room if that were the case—why not just kill Wooyoung? Why did he need information? It didn't add up, and Wooyoung's nerves prickled with doubt.

“You thought he was the only one who had a partner? I knew he was a test subject for V2. He told me everything—V2, the lab, and your partner, Yeonjun. I knew he planned on killing you and taking over your plans, but I never expected you to kill him first. That hurts, you know. Finding your brother’s head before his body. Sure, he was kind of a dick sometimes, but he was my only family, you know?” N pouted, and Wooyoung wasn’t sure if he was being genuine or not. 

“What, you came to get revenge for your brother?” Wooyoung probed. That sinking feeling lingered in his stomach, and he couldn’t shake the feeling that something bad was just around the corner. 

“Well, that depends.” 

“Huh? On what?” Wooyoung scoffed. 

N took a step forward, and Wooyoung instinctively stepped back. Wooyoung radiated doubt from every cell in his body, his gun firmly trained on N’s form. 

“I have a proposition. Scratch that—an ultimatum.” N halted a few paces away. 

“Let’s hear it.”

An ultimatum? Last time Wooyoung checked, he was the one with the gun, but he kept his guard up. 

“I’ll give you two choices. The first choice involves you convincing your partner to come back to town. He’s the one I was really after, but he got away before I could track him down. From what I gathered, he’s the brains of the operation, while you’re just… well, you see my point.” N gave a vague gesture in Wooyoung's direction.

Wooyoung scoffed at the blatant insult. Sure, he was no chemist, but really?

“Basically, I want to pick up where you left off. Your original idea really spoke to me—make a drug that can work on hybrids, and use it to create an army strong enough to overthrow the government. Simple enough. We all have the same goal, right? The army fucked us over by creating us and then deciding to wipe us out, so they’re just getting what they deserve. An eye for an eye, tooth for a tooth. I’m sure we all want that.”

Wooyoung _did_ want that, at first—but R's bloodlust in his quest for vengeance snapped him out of his fantasy. There were surely more hybrids like R out there—insatiable, rabid for revenge, and willing to slaughter the wives and children of those who'd wronged them as punishment. Petty revenge wasn't worth the bloodshed, and it would only perpetuate the idea that hybrids were monsters who deserved to be hunted. Wooyoung wanted to get back at the government just as much as the rest of them—hell, it was his entire life's goal for years on end—but the price was much too steep. 

“In theory, it works, but psychos like your brother are the reason we had to scrap it. He couldn’t be trusted,” Wooyoung said bluntly. 

“I know. I don’t blame you, but we should get the revenge we deserve, don’t you think?” N asked. 

“No, I don’t. Not if it means dragging families into it.” 

It's no wonder hybrids were made out to be monsters, with assholes like them killing without reason, tarnishing their image. Wooyoung was no angel, but he would never go after someone’s family out of pure spite. He killed when he had to, but his victims were never innocent. It wasn't a sport for him.

“C’mon, don’t be like that. Everybody dies, who cares if it’s a little too soon? And, look, I’m not condoning killing families either, but I don’t mind looking the other way if it happens. Think of the bigger picture,” N shrugged. 

“You said you had an ultimatum?” Wooyoung diverted the subject, not wanting to argue with him any further. There was no point. 

“Right, that. First choice—you get Yeonjun back here, and you help get the original plan back on track. We develop new batches of V2 and distribute them to every hybrid we can find, banding together to rip the military to shreds. Sound good?”

“Or else what?” Wooyoung countered.

“Or else… well, I’ll get revenge for my brother. I’m willing to let his death slide in favor of a common goal, but if you won’t cooperate, then…” N trailed off, but his point was clear.

“I’d like to see you try,” Wooyoung growled, finger on the trigger. 

“Think about it. You live or die, your choice. I’ll track down your lab partner either way, so I’d think carefully if I were you,” N sneered, taking another step forward. “Don’t you want to see your dream come to fruition? I’m giving you a chance, here. Don’t make me kill you.”

Wooyoung pulled the trigger. The shot echoed off the walls of the lab, but N snatched the gun from his hand, unscathed. N tossed it away, clenching a hand around Wooyoung’s wrist. His gun clattered to the floor, far out of reach. 

How—what the hell? _How was he so fast?_

“I told you, it makes no difference whether or not you come armed,” N laughed, an impossibly strong hand clamped around Wooyoung’s wrist. Wooyoung tried to rip his arm away, tendons flexing beneath his skin as he pulled with all his might, but he was getting nowhere. 

“What—the hell,” Wooyoung gritted through his teeth, struggling to get free. 

“Ravi was actually pretty smart. He held onto a few vials of V2, just in case.”

“I didn’t see you—take any,” Wooyoung spat, grunting with effort. 

“I took it just before you came. It was tough, fighting the urge not to rip your fucking head off that whole time—god, this shit is amazing!” N laughed giddily, shoving Wooyoung forward, his head smashing the edge of a table as he went down. “It feels incredible! Imagine a whole army of us like this, phew! We could bring the military pigs to their knees—piece of cake!”

Wooyoung didn’t have time to feel pain from the impact. He had to think of something—fast. He was unarmed, and painfully outclassed in terms of strength. N would spare him at the cost of rebooting the V2 plan, but he’d rather die than hand over that kind of power to someone like him. He would have to trust in Yeonjun’s ability to stay hidden. Ordinarily, he wouldn’t mind dying for such a cause, but… 

_Fuck_. He had to do something. 

That’s it—the remote. If he could get to the remote, maybe he could detonate the bombs with N still inside. Of course, that would also mean blowing himself up, but what choice did he have? The bombs probably weren't enough to kill them, but no matter—as long as he could destroy the lab, all traces of V2 would be wiped from existence, and that was enough. 

“What’ll it be, huh? Live or die?” N challenged, grabbing Wooyoung by the hair as he crouched next to him. 

The remote hung from a key rack by the door, mere feet away, but it may as well have been a mile. He fought against R when he was doped up on V2, but Yeosang and San had also been there. This time he was alone, and things looked pretty grim. Even if his plan succeeded, well… his odds of survival were basically zero. Fucking wonderful. 

“Maybe I’ll go after your little boyfriend, _Choi San_ , just for fun—how about that? Change your mind yet?” N sneered. 

“I’ll rip your fucking head off, just like your brother!” Wooyoung snarled, tackling N as a surge of anger washed over him. 

Wooyoung’s hands clenched around N’s throat, but N shoved him off, sending him flying. Test tubes shattered against the floor as Wooyoung crashed into a supply shelf, broken glass crunching underneath his shoes as he scrambled to his feet. N was on him in an instant, fisting his hands into the front of Wooyoung’s shirt and throwing him hard against a chemical analysis machine. Wooyoung kept his balance enough to dodge N’s fist, slipping out of the way and making a run for the door. 

“You think you can just run from me?” N laughed in amusement, lunging forward in pursuit. 

Wooyoung grabbed the remote off the rack, his heart soaring for a brief, triumphant moment before feeling his back hit the wall. 

“Ha, I’m not running,” Wooyoung laughed through his teeth.

Yeonjun had planted bombs on each side of the room—one on the left wall, and one on the far right. Both would detonate at once, destroying everything in the lab. Yeonjun was the genius, after all, of course he would think of something like that. Wooyoung was hoping to take N down in the process, but they were too far away to feel the full impact of the explosions, most likely. Best case scenario he could use the millisecond of surprise to slip away right after the bombs went off. Worst case... well, whatever. As long as the lab was destroyed, he did his job. N knew he planned on blowing up the lab, but odds are he didn't know about the remote. 

Wooyoung didn’t have time to think about Yeonjun’s work going to waste. He didn’t have time to think about leaving Val behind—she had Yeosang to protect her. Wooyoung didn’t have time to think about him, either. He was protecting the secret of V2, and for that, Yeosang would be grateful. Most of all, he didn’t have time to think about San. He didn’t have time to be sorry, or sad, or to hesitate. His thumb brushed over the button, the killswitch to erase it all. 

“Last chance—what’s your answer?” N spat, pulling a knife from his jacket and positioning the blade against Wooyoung’s throat. 

Wooyoung gave a bitter laugh. 

“No thanks,” he spat, shoving his thumb against the button. 

Everything happened in slow motion.

The room erupted in a deafening roar as the bombs went off, shaking Wooyoung to the core as a shockwave ripped through his body. The lab was swallowed by flames in an instant, glass and shrapnel flying through the air like a claymore mine. Wooyoung shoved N away, using the surprise to his advantage, clumsily slipping through the door just as searing flames began licking at his clothes, the heat from the blast scorching his skin. N lost his balance as Wooyoung pushed him back, his face twisted in shock as a bright wall of flame consumed his body. N cursed, his scream of anger all but lost in the roar of the explosion.

Wooyoung scrambled out into the hallway, choking and sputtering as smoke burned his lungs, stinging his throat with every breath. His ears rang and his head spun from the shock, aching like his brain had been crushed with a sledgehammer. Water gushed onto the floor as a from a pipe damaged in the blast, and Wooyoung lost his footing, landing hard on his knees. Blood dripped from shrapnel wounds all over his body, but there was no time to assess the damage. He pulled himself to his feet, staggering down the hall in an attempt to escape. If Wooyoung was alive, then there was a pretty good chance that—

“Nice try.”

There was a voice behind him, and a blade at his throat. N’s arm was marred with burns, from what Wooyoung could tell, but the V2 would have kept his pain at bay. Water continued gushing around his feet, pooling around his shoes, and the corridor slowly filled with smoke. Wooyoung froze, the knife cold against his skin, a stark contrast to the hot air that surrounded him. 

“Real cute. Remote controlled bombs—how convenient. Makes sense you would have a way to hide the evidence like that. I really hope you didn’t think that would kill me. Come on, Wooyoung,” N sighed. 

“A guy can dream,” Wooyoung joked dryly, N’s blade sitting just under his jaw. 

“We don’t need the lab, you know. Bring Yeonjun to me and we’ll be even.” 

“Go to hell,” Wooyoung spat. 

“Mm, what a shame.” 

The cold edge of the blade felt searing hot as it sliced against Wooyoung’s throat. 

Wooyoung’s hand instinctively came up to grasp at his neck, staggering backwards as blood gushed from his throat like a faucet. His eyes went wide, and every draw of air made him choke as blood ran down his trachea. He couldn’t speak, and his head felt light, like his skull had been emptied out. 

N stepped around to face him, holding a cell phone against his ear with an eerie smile on his face. 

“This'll be fun, listen—hello? I’d like to report a crime. There’s a drug lab in the basement of the Hotel Ruby—I’d hurry, it’s on fire,” N said into the phone. 

_Huh?_

N hung up and shoved his phone back into his pocket, clicking his tongue at Wooyoung. 

“I wonder which’ll kill you first—the blood loss, or the fire? Or, maybe—" N paused to laugh at his own ingenuity. “—maybe the feds will get to you first. Maybe your police officer boyfriend will get to watch you take your last breath. How sad. And if you _do_ manage to survive, you'll rot in Confinement. I'm curious to see.” 

_San._

Wooyoung’s legs went numb. He fell to the floor, gasping for breath, choking and sputtering as he drowned in his own blood. The water on the floor marbled red in grotesque swirls around him, chilling him to the core as it soaked his clothes. 

N stared down at him, giving Wooyoung a condescending pout. His hair was singed and his clothes had burned through in some places, revealing patches of charred, bleeding skin. 

“I’ll find your partner one of these days. Don’t worry—I’ll carry out your dream for you. Later.”

N stepped around Wooyoung’s body, giving a casual wave as he disappeared from Wooyoung’s peripheral. His footsteps grew quiet, fading away until all that remained were the crackles and pops of the flames, and the distant screeching of the hotel’s alarms. The smoke grew thicker as it billowed from the lab, filling the hallway in an acrid gray haze. 

Wooyoung’s vision went blurry, blood loss making his eyelids heavy and his body numb. His chest fluttered with shallow, labored breaths as he fought for air, his efforts growing weaker by the second. His eyes drifted shut of their own accord, a pool of dark crimson his final image before succumbing to the darkness. His breathing grew slower and slower, exhaustion pulling his consciousness away, a thick blanket of sleep smothering him like a weak flame. 

_San..._

Wooyoung's last thought was one of aching regret. 

_I'm sorry._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> haha like N and (R)avi from vixx… my biases rly said there can only be one. sorry ravi i still love you. why do i always pick my biases from other groups as the extras that get killed off. why do i do that. i always feel bad about it later 
> 
> anyway haha wooyoung u good bro 
> 
> twitter & tumblr @ yungwooyoung
> 
> fic playlist that goes hard as fuck [here!!](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/5eGeySTdOkbL7GnwxifYW7?si=Srtv7kQNSbyvS_ZwvoA6hg)


	19. don't leave me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> sorry it took so long i was busy watching survivor lol. brenden from season 18 if you’re reading this call me ;)

_Wooyoung._

The scent of smoke stung San’s nose the moment he shoved the stairwell door open. It was definitely coming from the basement, and San could hear his heart pounding in his ears as he flew down the steps toward the source. His frantic footsteps echoed off the walls, his chest heaving as he ran as fast as his legs would carry him. He didn’t know what the hell was going on, but the look on Val’s face when the alarms went off made his stomach churn with unease. It was one thing if Wooyoung wanted to run off without San, but there’s no way he wouldn’t have told her. 

It didn’t make any sense. What reason would Wooyoung have to detonate the bombs before midnight? It could be that he decided to leave San behind altogether, but… 

Something didn’t feel right. 

San may not have been the world’s greatest cop—hell, at this point he was more of a criminal than anything—but his instincts were rarely off. He trusted his gut, and right now, it was telling him that something was off. San remembered Wooyoung telling him about a feeling he had— _something’s gnawing at me, and I just can’t put my finger on it_. What if Wooyoung had been right? Anxiety buzzed under San's skin at the idea of an unseen enemy lurking just beyond their peripheral. A realization hit, his stomach sinking with worry. 

The V2—was someone after it? 

If Yeosang had been willing to kill San to protect its existence, then it was within the realm of possibility that someone would be willing to kill to get their hands on it. 

_Willing to kill Wooyoung_. 

Horrible scenarios flooded San’s mind, and he willed his feet to carry him as fast as they possibly could, flying down the steps toward the lowest level. The smoke burned his eyes, thickening as he reached the source, only one more flight of stairs between him and the lab. Whether or not Wooyoung would be inside, San wasn’t sure—and he didn’t know which option would be worse. There were several possible outcomes, and San hoped he was just being paranoid. 

A figure came into view as San rounded the landing onto the final flight of stairs, catching San by surprise as they nearly collided. It wasn't Wooyoung, to San's disappointment. It was a young man covered in burns, with scorched clothes and patches of charred, bleeding skin, and he gave San an odd smile as they crossed paths. _Who the hell_ —

“Ah, pardon me,” the man said, stepping out of the way to let San through. He kept his eyes on San with a strange, almost amused smirk, like he’d just told himself a good joke. “Are you Choi San, by chance?" 

“H-huh?” San stuttered, his mind racing too fast to form an answer. Did he know this guy? 

No, Definitely not. He had incredibly sharp eyes, slicing through San like a panther, a feature San would have remembered.

The guy was covered in fresh, oozing burns, clearly painful, but didn’t seem too bothered despite the damage. Was he a hybrid? Who was he, and what was he doing in the basement? The sinking feeling in San’s stomach intensified tenfold, and the man’s strange grin widened at San’s blatant distress. 

“Mm, too funny. Looks like option number three,” the man mused.

 _Option number three_? The hell did that mean? Some kind of cryptic inside joke?

San didn’t have time to evaluate its meaning. He shoved through without responding, nearly tripping over himself as he reached the landing, a cloud of smoke hitting him in the face the second he pushed the basement door open. San heard Yunho calling his name from several floors above, but San didn’t stop, coughing as he flew into the haze of smoke. Water splashed under his feet, soaking the ankles of his pant legs.

Huh—water?

He looked down in surprise at the several inches of water that coated the floor, but he didn't have time to stop and evaluate. He trudged through, nearly slipping as he rounded the corner with haste. 

What he saw brought his whole world to a screeching halt. San could have sworn his heart stopped beating entirely. 

_Red_.

The entire hallway was soaked in red. In the center of it all, Wooyoung lay strewn on the floor, motionless. Embers flew from the lab's doorway into the hallway, flecks of bright orange fluttering through the air and fizzling out at they fell into the water. Smoke billowed from the crackling flames in the lab, filling the hallway with its gray, acrid haze. San didn't give a shit about the heat from the fire or the smoke choking his lungs—in his tunnel vision, all he could see was Wooyoung. _Wooyoung, blood, hurry._

“Wooyoung!” 

No. No, no, _no_.

San splashed down the hall, sinking to his knees beside Wooyoung. He called out Wooyoung's name, but no response. San felt gutted, like every organ had been ripped from his body. Wooyoung’s skin was deathly pale—translucent, even, and his chest was quiet, without even the faintest sound of breath. San cupped Wooyoung’s face with trembling fingers, his eyes immediately falling to the deep gash across his throat with a stab of nausea right to his gut. San’s mind flashed to the man in the stairwell— _was he responsible for this_? It didn’t matter, Wooyoung was—

No—he couldn’t be. No, please, _no_. 

“Wooyoung?” he croaked. “Wooyoung, please! Open your eyes!” 

No response. 

San shook him lightly, trying to rouse him awake. His skin was cold, and so, _so_ pale. The water around them was stained with blood, coating the floor with its sheer, sickening volume. The gash across Wooyoung’s throat kept gushing, spilling down Wooyoung’s neck and staining his white button up a dark crimson. It was deep—whoever had inflicted the wound had clearly meant to kill him. Blood trickled from his lips, like he'd coughed it up as it poured down his trachea before losing consciousness altogether. Lacerations marred his chest, arms and legs, and his clothes were burned through in some places. 

What the hell happened here? Had Wooyoung been in the lab during the explosion? _Why?_

San didn’t have time to think. He grabbed his pocket knife with shaking fingers and dragged the blade across his forearm, hard enough to draw blood. He dropped the knife and shoved his arm against Wooyoung’s mouth, praying he wasn’t too late. 

“Please, Wooyoung! Come on, please wake up!” San begged, watching blood run down Wooyoung’s face as it trickled over his lips. 

San’s blood poured into Wooyoung’s mouth, but Wooyoung didn’t stir. His body was still, limp as San cradled his head, not even a flicker of his eyelashes, nor the faintest glimmer of vitality. San pressed the cut against Wooyoung's lips, like he could force him to drink if he just pushed hard enough, begged hard enough, prayed hard enough. 

“Please, please, _please!_ ” 

Body numb with despair, San held his arm against Wooyoung’s mouth, refusing to accept that Wooyoung could be gone. 

_Gone_.

No. He couldn’t be. He _couldn’t_ be. 

They were barely two hours away from freedom—from happiness. It wasn’t possible. It wasn’t fair. 

_It’s not fair_. 

“Open your eyes,” San croaked, his voice cracking. 

_It’s not fair_. 

“Please, god, _please!_ ” San didn’t even believe in god, but he was desperate enough for anything at this point. He would give his damn soul if it meant Wooyoung could live, if his soul was even still worth anything.

 _Please, god. I’ll do anything. I’m begging you_. 

“Wooyoung!” 

Nothing. San felt hollow, empty. 

Was he… really gone? 

San felt like his heart had been torn out and replaced with a lump of dry ice. An excruciating cold filled his entire body, despair taking over at the idea that _Wooyoung was gone_. 

“No,” San breathed, his voice choked with anguish. “No, no, no.” 

_Please, god, don't take him from me._

He was speaking directly to god at this point, who clearly wasn’t listening. God didn’t care about hybrids, sinners, or liars, and he most certainly didn’t care about San. San knew that. He’d known for a long, long time. God was cruel, merciless, unforgiving. Slowly picking off everyone San loved, one at a time, carving away at his soul until he was left with just an empty shell. 

_It’s not fair_. 

“Don’t leave me,” San pleaded. 

His eyes welled with tears, thumbing over Wooyoung’s cheek like a fragile glass sculpture. Blood flowed from the cut on San’s arm into Wooyoung’s mouth, but it didn’t heal him. It was too late. Wooyoung was gone, and San was alone. 

Again. 

Always alone, always hurting. 

The wounds that never healed were exposed once again, festering with disease in his rotten, decayed heart. Wooyoung had been his penicillin, healing his pain, scraping away all of the rot and bandaging the hurt until San was able to feel something again, something better. The wounds were still there, but Wooyoung eased the pain. He made San forget how fucked up reality was, even for just a little while, and that alone was more than San could have ever asked for. 

And just like that, he was gone. 

“Dammit,” San snarled, snacking his hand against the floor, bloody droplets of water splashing into the smoky air. “Dammit, _dammit!_ ”

Tears spilled down his cheeks as he looked at Wooyoung’s lifeless face, beautiful and serene, like he was in a state of deep sleep. San brushed a few strands of hair from his face, his skin cool beneath his fingertips, but San felt colder. A pervasive, aching cold that could never thaw. San cupped Wooyoung’s cheek, a pitiful sob escaping his lips as he trailed his thumb across a stray drop of blood. He started to pull his arm back, giving up his futile attempt at saving Wooyoung. It was too late. 

_He was too late_. 

San had never felt so helpless. 

_Wooyoung_. 

San had nothing. He’d given up his best friend, his job, everything. Wooyoung was all he had, and now he had nothing. 

_I love you_. 

He couldn’t say it out loud. His voice didn’t work, and there was no point. Wooyoung was gone. 

Wooyoung was gone, and San had nothing. 

San pulled his arm back from Wooyoung’s lips, leaving behind dark smears of crimson in stark contrast to his pale skin. Gutted and utterly, utterly lost, San could do nothing but stare down at Wooyoung’s lifeless body, tears streaming down his face as he silently wept at his side. San heard the sound of the basement door being shoved open, but his mind was too disconnected to register it. San’s shoulders shook with sobs as the sound of splashing footsteps grew closer, but he didn’t have it within him to care. 

San didn’t care if his relationship with Wooyoung was exposed. He didn’t care if Yunho saw him, covered in blood and crying at a hybrid’s side. He didn’t care if he was exiled, or incarcerated for his crimes. He didn’t care if he died, honestly. He didn’t care about anything. All he cared about was Wooyoung, and Wooyoung was dead. 

San was alone, and he had nothing. 

“San?” Yunho’s voice called out.

San didn’t answer. He felt numb from head to toe, an empty husk devoid of feeling. He wanted nothing more than to stay down there until the smoke suffocated him, but Yunho would probably drag him out before that could happen. He couldn’t move, and he didn’t want to. He wanted to stay by Wooyoung’s side, holding him in his arms, protecting him from the filthy hands that would try to take him away. San wouldn’t let them. He would rather die than—

A cough ripped him from his thoughts. 

It was faint, so faint that San almost thought he’d imagined it, but then came another. Wooyoung’s chest shook with feeble coughs, wheezing and gasping for breath, and San’s heart nearly exploded with relief. San frantically stroked his face with trembling fingers, letting out a choked sob at the realization that _Wooyoung is alive_. 

“Oh, god,” San breathed, his emptiness replaced with a violent surge of emotion. 

He pressed the wound on his arm against Wooyoung’s lips, urging him to drink. Wooyoung was alive, but barely. He was fighting to hang on, his condition still far from favorable. 

“Shh, it’s ok. You’re gonna be ok.” Wooyoung’s lips sealed around the cut on San’s arm, drinking with more intention, but still very weak. 

“San! What are you—“ Yunho called as he splashed down the hallway after San. 

Wooyoung coughed, spitting up blood from his lungs, gasping for breath as San stroked his cheek with his free hand. San paid Yunho no mind, focused solely on forcing Wooyoung to drink. He'd never felt so much relief in his life, like he'd just witnessed a miracle. Wooyoung was alive, and San was ready to fight tooth and claw to keep it that way.

“Keep drinking, please—“ San begged, pressing his gashed forearm against Wooyoung’s lips. 

Blood ran down Wooyoung’s face as he struggled to drink, his consciousness seeming to fade in and out. The slice across his neck had stopped oozing, but the wound was still there, and very deep. Wooyoung had lost a lot of blood—so much that San was kneeling in a pool of it—and San wasn’t sure if he could even give enough to heal Wooyoung without passing out himself. Still, he kept his arm pressed against Wooyoung’s mouth, softly caressing Wooyoung’s cheek as he begged him to keep drinking. Consequences were the last thing on his mind, physical or otherwise.

“San! What the hell are you—“ San heard Yunho’s footsteps halt right behind him, the water going still around his feet. “Is that… a hybrid?” 

The shock was evident in Yunho’s voice, dumbfounded by the scene in front of him. San was on the floor, willfully giving a hybrid his own blood. He had every right to be shocked.

San didn’t respond. He kept his eyes glued to the slice across Wooyoung’s neck, waiting for it to pinch itself shut and fade away like it never happened, but it wouldn’t heal. 

_Why wouldn’t it heal?_ Had Wooyoung lost too much blood? 

San’s hands shook with panic, but he didn’t stop. He _couldn’t_ stop. He would give every drop of blood he had if it meant Wooyoung would live. Wooyoung’s eyelashes fluttered open, and San felt a small pinch of relief in his chest when Wooyoung seemed to recognize him. 

“S...Sa—n,” Wooyoung croaked, triggering a new round of wet coughing as he tried to expel the blood from his lungs. 

“Shh, baby, don’t talk,” San whispered, brushing his thumb across Wooyoung’s cheek. “You’re gonna be ok, I promise, just keep dr—“

San felt a hand clench around his shoulder, roughly dragging him back through the water, forcing San's arm away from Wooyoung’s lips. 

“What the fuck is this? What’s going on?” Yunho demanded. "That's a hybrid—he needs to be taken into custody! Move, so I can—"

“Don't touch him!” San spat, shoving Yunho away and scrambling back to Wooyoung. 

He didn’t want to waste a drop of blood spilling from his wound, and he didn’t give a shit if Yunho saw. It didn’t matter anymore. The only thing that mattered was keeping Wooyoung alive, regardless of the cost. San's relationship with Yunho was already irreparably damaged, he didn't want to lose Wooyoung too. 

San tried to shove his arm against Wooyoung’s mouth again, but Yunho dragged him up to his feet by his jacket. San stumbled at the roughness of it, his feet slipping against the wet floor, but Yunho kept him locked in place, staring down at San with an expression that sent a shiver all the way to his toes. San thrashed in his hold, but Yunho’s grip didn’t falter. 

“'Don't touch him?' You better tell me what’s going on right now, San, I swear—“ Yunho stopped abruptly. There was an eerie pause before he spoke again. “Is that… the bartender?”

Bartender? 

San was confused for a moment, then it hit him.

Right, Wooyoung had been playing dress-up as the bartender at the Hotel Ruby the night San had first gone up to his room, as an excuse to talk out in the open. San had nearly forgotten about it. It felt like ages ago, at this point. Mingi and Yunho had been there with him, and Yunho never forgot a face. Wooyoung had been wearing a mask, but not many people had bright silvery hair like he did. It didn’t take long for Yunho to put the pieces together. San's stomach sank like a rock.

Yunho was no idiot. If the "bartender" was a hybrid, then the hotel really was up to something. If San _knew_ that the bartender was a hybrid, that would mean that San knew the hotel was up to something, and stayed quiet, maybe even tampered with evidence. And, well, it was pretty obvious that San knew this bartender quite well. The strange behavior, the excuses, the bite marks all over his body. Judging by the look on Yunho's face, he was quick to put it all together. 

“You lied to me,” Yunho breathed in disbelief. “This whole time, you—“

San’s head was still reeling with panic, trying to shove past Yunho to get to Wooyoung, but Yunho wouldn't budge. 

“Yunho, wait, I—“

“ _This_ is blackmail?” Yunho snatched San’s wrist in his hand, holding it up in front of his face. 

“Please, Yunho, not now! He—he’s—“ San stammered, the words _he’s dying_ stuck in his throat like a rock. 

_He’s dying. Wooyoung is dying, I need to—_

“You knew. This whole time, you—“ Yunho cut himself off with a laugh, like the situation was too funny to be real. “You let me believe you were being blackmailed. You _knew_ , this whole time, about the Ruby—you—“

“Yunho, _please_ , I—“

“You’re a fucking liar!” 

Yunho shoved him backwards, feet splashing through bloody water as he staggered down the hall, gripping the wall for balance. San stared at him speechlessly. There wasn’t a single thing he could have possibly said, even if he was capable of thinking something other than _save Wooyoung, save Wooyoung_. 

“Whose side are you on, San? This whole time, right in front of my face, right under all of our fucking noses—“ Yunho splashed after San, grabbing him by the collar and looking him right in the eye. “You were a traitor, this whole fucking time!” 

Yunho swung, landing a hard punch across San’s face. It knocked San back a few paces, and Yunho grabbed him before he could recover. 

“Yunho—“ 

San was silenced with another hard punch. He felt it like a shockwave all throughout his body, clutching his chin as the metallic taste of blood coated his tongue. 

“I trusted you—my best fucking friend, and you—“ 

Another punch. Yunho was furious, and San was too shaken to dodge, dizzy from the last blow and heavy on his feet. San held the wall for support, spitting blood from his mouth as he struggled to stand. His cheek throbbed and his lip was split, but he couldn’t retaliate. 

Not that he deserved to. 

Yunho was right, San _was_ a traitor, and Yunho had every right to be furious. 

“—lied to me! To all of us!” Yunho snarled, shoving San against the wall. 

Yunho cocked his fist again, and San was just barely able to deflect it as it hurled toward his face, clumsily slipping out of Yunho’s grasp. San fell to his knees, trying to scramble away, but Yunho landed a harsh kick to San’s ribs with a sickening crack. The wind was ripped from San’s lungs with an agonized grunt, and he collapsed to the floor, curling in on himself as pain wracked his entire body. Water soaked into his clothes, weighing him down against the ground, and he could do nothing but groan weakly as he clutched his cracked ribs, gasping pathetically for breath. San was a hell of a fighter, but physically speaking, he was no match against Yunho—especially while angry.

“Please, Yun—“ San croaked as Yunho loomed over him, but Yunho’s expression wasn’t one of mercy. 

“Shut up! I was there for you, San! I was trying to help you! All this time, all your strange behavior, I thought— 

Yunho sank to his knees, grabbing San by his shirt collar so he couldn't escape. Yunho laughed, cold and humorless, cocking his fist back for another blow. San braced himself. 

"—I thought you'd gotten yourself into some shit. I wanted to help you. I was beating myself up over it—feeling like I'd let you down, like it was somehow my fault, but no—you've been _fucking_ him!"

Pain exploded against his face as Yunho went in for another blow, landing square against San's cheek. 

"Yunho, listen to me—"

Yunho didn't give him a chance. He landed another hard hit to San's face, and San felt a warm trickle of blood running down from his nose over his lips and down his chin. Yunho straddled him, his knees dipping into the water and caging San’s chest against the ground as he forced San to look at him. Yunho’s expression was a twisted mess of rage, staring down at San like a madman. He'd seen Yunho mad before. He'd seen him pissed, irritated, upset—but never truly _furious._ San could barely recognize him—like the person pinning him down was a stranger instead of his best friend. Not that they could even be considered friends anymore—that ship had sailed, burned, sank. 

It was all San's fault, and he deserved every hit that Yunho threw.

“I fucking loved you! And you—you—“ Yunho’s face was twisted with despair and anger all at once, like San had gone and ripped his heart right out of his chest. 

San couldn’t breathe. There were hands clenching around his throat, crushing his trachea, and his eyes went wide as he fought for breath. 

“Y—Yu—“ San croaked, but nothing would come out. 

“I loved you! I would have done _anything_ for you— _anything_ —and this is what I get? I bend over backwards making excuses for you, and you go around fucking hybrids behind my back? Who the _fuck_ are you?” 

San’s legs thrashed in a desperate attempt to get free, splashing futilely as Yunho’s hands tightened. Blood rushed in his ears, pulsing in his head like it was trying to burst from his veins as he struggled for air, his nails clawing at Yunho’s fingers so hard they drew blood. Yunho didn’t relent, squeezing his knees around San’s ribs to keep him in place as he writhed beneath him. San's lungs screamed for oxygen, but the hands clutching his throat wouldn't allow it. 

“My best fucking friend! Does that mean nothing to you? All these years—just for you to spit in my fucking face?” Yunho screamed at him, the sound growing distant as the corners of San’s vision started to blur. 

_Best friend._

San's best friend was strangling him to death, how cathartic. He'd managed to pull Wooyoung back from the brink of death, and now they were both going to die. Hope and relief slipped through his fingers once again, leaving him with nothing but crippling sense of despair. 

San’s eyes rolled back into his head, mouth agape as he tried helplessly to gasp for air. The pressure in his head grew stronger as his vision faded out, his hands growing weak and his legs stilling against the floor. His body felt heavy and his ears rushed with the sound of his own pulse; his eyes felt like they were about to pop like balloons, throbbing in his skull as everything went dark. Choked sounds escaped his throat as he fought desperately to breathe, his consciousness slipping away like sand.

Was Yunho going to kill him? 

Yunho didn't show any sign of stopping, screaming words at San's face that San couldn't hear. The sound of his own heartbeat was too loud, and even that was fading away into silence. Yunho wasn't going to stop. He was going to kill San, then go after Wooyoung. San had failed to save Wooyoung, after all. 

_I deserve this_. 

San was going to die at the hands of his best friend, and Wooyoung would die in Confinement, if he even made it that long. It was almost poetic, in a way. San never believed in karma before, but there was no other explanation for such hilariously cruel timing. He was so close to escaping his old life he could practically taste freedom on his tongue, but just like that, his house of cards came tumbling down. He was so close, just a hair away from his happy ending—just him, Wooyoung, and the arsenal in their trunk—and, just like that, it was gone.

San was foolish to have ever hoped for a happy ending. He was foolish for opening his heart up to someone, just to have them snatched away, helpless to stop it. Just like his parents, snatched away in the blink of an eye as fate laughed at him from the sidelines. San felt like a fly caught in a web, trying in vain to escape while the spider of fate loomed ever closer, smiling as it waited to devour him. San was foolish to think falling in love with Wooyoung wouldn’t end in tragedy. 

Karma must be real, and he deserved all of it. 

Lethargy consumed his body like his bones were made of lead, his limbs too weak to keep fighting. His hand fell away from Yunho's, unable to fight any longer, letting it fall to the floor with a splash. His writhing ceased as he succumbed to the darkness, his body going still, the rage on Yunho’s face the last thing he saw before his eyes shut for good. 

Then, three things happened in quick succession. 

A gunshot fired off, Yunho’s hands released San’s throat, and someone screamed. 

San gasped wildly for air, his chest inflating with a huge breath as oxygen finally filled his lungs, pulling him back from the edge of unconsciousness. Blood rushed to his head all at once, hitting him like a freight train, and San rolled onto his side, coughing hard as he struggled to support himself with trembling arms. As he lay wheezing on the floor, he became vaguely aware of Yunho spitting curses from several paces away. San cracked his eyes open to look, shocked at the addition of someone new. 

Yeosang?

San clutched his aching throat, shoulders heaving with each breath as he wrapped his head around the situation. Yeosang was kneeling protectively by Wooyoung’s body, a gun trained in Yunho’s direction. Yunho was clutching his arm, face twisted in a furious snarl. Blood dripped down into the water below, and everything clicked. 

Yeosang shot Yunho? 

It was almost nostalgic—though the roles were reversed.

San didn’t have time to question why or how Yeosang was there. Yunho slipped a gun from his jacket with his good hand, raising it at Yeosang in retaliation. San threw himself forward, tackling Yunho before he could shoot, hanging off Yunho’s arm, hugging it in a vice grip. Yunho cursed and tried to shove him off, but San didn’t relent, using the weight of his body to drag Yunho’s aim off kilter. 

“Get the fuck off me!” Yunho screamed, jabbing an elbow straight into San’s ribs. 

San choked and nearly lost his hold, but managed to stay locked around Yunho’s arm. His chest heaved as he fought for breath, still recovering from his near strangulation, but he had enough adrenaline in his system to keep him fighting. Wooyoung still had a chance at survival, and San would fight to his last breath to save him. San wouldn't risk letting Yunho take a shot in their direction. Wooyoung was barely hanging on—if he got hit, it was over. Yeosang could survive a gunshot, but he needed his strength to carry Wooyoung to safety. San was counting on Yeosang with everything he had. 

“Touch them and you’re dead,” San snarled, tightening his grip even further. 

Yunho laughed, spitting through his teeth as he glared down at San. “You sure have a lot of new friends, don’t you?”

Yunho threw another hard elbow, more aimed this time, and a choked scream ripped from San’s throat as it landed right against his fractured rib. Yunho seized the opportunity to shake him off, throwing San to the floor and raising his gun at the pair down the hall. Yeosang acted like a shield around Wooyoung’s body, poised like he was ready to protect him at any cost—just like San. 

_Any cost_. 

San was ready to do whatever it took to save Wooyoung’s life, which is exactly what fueled him to grab Yunho by the wrist, dragging the gun to his own chest. Yeosang’s eyes widened in shock, and Yunho’s glare shifted to San with an icy conviction, like he was ready to eliminate anything that stood in his way. He wasn't the only one. 

San would rather die than let Yunho take away the person he loved. 

“What, I'll have to go through you first? Is that what you’re gonna say?” Yunho sneered. 

San ignored him, focused solely on Wooyoung’s survival. 

“Take him!” San pleaded to Yeosang, keeping his eyes locked on Yunho's, and in his peripheral he saw Yeosang start to lift Wooyoung from the floor. 

“What makes you think I won’t pull the trigger?” Yunho’s voice was low and dangerous. 

“Do it, then.”

There was a beat of silence, then Yunho’s lips curled into an eerie smile. 

“Fine,” Yunho breathed, sparing San one more cold glance before ripping his arm away and smashing the gun against San’s head. 

San’s skull erupted in a throbbing pain as he collapsed to the floor, his head reeling from the blow. It wasn’t enough to knock him out cold, but he was incapacitated long enough for Yunho to kneel on top of him, straddling him as he wrenched San’s arms behind his back. San spat out water as his face was shoved into the floor, Yunho’s knee crushing into his spine with the entirety of his weight. San grunted weakly, meeting Yeosang’s wide eyes from down the hall as Yunho secured his wrists behind his back with carbon fiber restraints. 

“You wanna be a traitor? Fine—I’ll give you the VIP treatment,” Yunho spat as the restraints clicked in place. 

_Thank you_ , San silently mouthed to Yeosang, his gaze falling to Wooyoung one final time. 

Even through all the blood, Wooyoung was still heart-achingly beautiful. He’d lost consciousness again, lying limp in Yeosang’s arms, his brows furrowed slightly in a painful slumber. His breathing was fast and shallow, his chest struggling to rise with each feeble inhale, his skin white with pallor. San realized with a sharp pang that it would be the last time he ever saw Wooyoung’s face. 

San wanted to kiss his pain away, to hold him one last time, to tell him those words that he’d never said aloud to anyone before. The words he’d practiced over and over in his head, like an actor rehearsing his lines for a play, but the show was canceled. San would never get to see him again, not even a goodbye to leave him with. Yunho would take San to Confinement, and San's last memory of Wooyoung would be one of him covered in blood, throat slashed, barely clinging to life. No matter—Wooyoung was alive, and that's all San wanted. He didn't care if he was dragged to Confinement, not if it meant saving Wooyoung.

Yeosang gave San a nod of gratitude as he slipped away, escaping with Wooyoung to safety. 

Yunho roughly yanked San up to his feet, shoving him forward with a gun firmly pressed to his side. San staggered a few paces, his legs weak and his head spinning from the blow. His knees buckled underneath him, and Yunho hooked an elbow underneath San’s arm to keep him up. San felt like all of his strength had been sapped, hardly any energy left to fight.

“Yunho,” San croaked. “Please, I—”

“Walk,” Yunho ordered, shoving the barrel of his gun against San’s fractured ribs. 

San cried out as a jolt of pain shot through his body, doubling over as Yunho forcibly dragged him toward the stairs. There was no use struggling—Yunho had the upper hand in every way, despite the injury to one of his hands. San trudged forward, his feet dragging in the water as his entire body ached in protest. Yunho refused to make eye contact, staring stoically forward as he hauled San up the stairs and out of the building. San had no choice but to climb the stairs, the gun gnawing at his side with a threatening bite. 

The street out front was illuminated with red and blue light as cops and firemen swarmed the hotel, sirens blaring from all sides with their deafening howls. Armored vans pulled up to the scene, fully geared Ops members piling out with weapons in hand. They rushed the building in a stampede of steel-toed boots, helmets obscuring their faces like assembly-line robots, guided missiles on their way to seize whatever fell into their crosshairs. San felt sick—the one in the crosshairs was _him,_ a man bound for the gallows. San felt eyes on him from every angle, picking him apart like vultures. _Disgusting, every one of them_. 

Yunho didn’t spare them so much as a glance, dragging San toward a black transport van just out front. Mingi and Jongho stood nearby, their relieved expressions twisting into ones of confusion upon seeing San’s arms in restraints. Mingi intercepted them first, his eyes taking in their bloodied forms with frantic concern. San kept his eyes screwed shut, his head throbbing and his legs weak, and the thought of meeting his teammates' eyes made him sick to his stomach. 

“What—what happened?” Mingi demanded, hands outstretched as if to calm a wild beast. “What’s going—“

“Don’t touch him,” Yunho barked, harshly shoving San against the side of the van. San grunted as his shoulder smashed against it. 

“San? Why is he—“ Jongho’s eyes were wide, dumbfounded by the sight of San being handled like a criminal. 

“He’s a traitor,” Yunho spat. 

“Traitor? I-I don’t understand—“ Jongho started, but Yunho cut him off. 

“He was hiding evidence this entire time. He was in on the whole thing, him and his little hybrid boyfriend he’s been fucking,” Yunho dug his gun into San’s broken rib as he spoke, earning an agonized groan as San doubled over. “What do you have to say for yourself?”

“Fuck you,” San spat blood from his lips, shooting Yunho an icy glare. Yunho jammed the gun against his ribs again, and San’s knees buckled. 

Yunho caught him, dragging his face in close. “Don’t worry, I’ll make sure he joins you in Confinement soon enough,” Yunho sneered.

San saw red. The idea of Yunho so much as _looking_ at Wooyoung made his heart pound and his blood boil, and he thrashed against Yunho's hold, energized by a wave of fury. There wasn't much he could do with his arms restrained behind his back, but it didn't stop him from trying. 

“If you lay one fucking finger on him, I swear to god I’ll—“ San snarled through his teeth. 

“You’ll what?” Yunho sneered, tossing San into the arms of two other agents who came up behind him. They dragged San backwards toward the back of the armored car, gripping San tightly as he kicked and thrashed against their hold, practically frothing at the mouth as he screamed at Yunho. He didn't give a shit if he was making a scene—he wanted Yunho fucking _dead._

“I’ll kill you, you piece of shit! Let go of me! I’ll cut your fucking throat!” San screamed at the top of his lungs.

A gun cracked against his temple, and everything went black.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yeah so uh. rip yunsan. yunho best boi too good for this world HA SIKE u thought. homie SNAPPED. hell hath no fury like a yunho scorned. did san get what was coming to him? yea of course. did i feel terrible writing this entire chapter? yea of course. and yall rly thought I would kill wooyoung omg
> 
> happy bday to woo the loml <3333 sorry for nearly killing u
> 
> twitter & tumblr @ yungwooyoung
> 
> fic playlist that goes hard as fuck [here!!](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/5eGeySTdOkbL7GnwxifYW7?si=Srtv7kQNSbyvS_ZwvoA6hg)


	20. fiat justitia, et pereat mundus

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> i’ve had the survivor theme stuck in my head for a solid seven days and i’m gonna fucking lose it man

“Wooyoung!” 

Someone was calling his name. 

Wooyoung’s body felt heavy, his chest gurgling with fluid like he’d been drowning. He coughed, tasting his own blood as it rose up into his mouth, spilling from his lips as he hacked. A searing pain made him gasp and clutch at his throat, his hands weak and fingers trembling. His fingers brushed against a gash across his throat, crusted over with dried blood and unsettlingly deep. The bleeding seemed to have stopped, but the area still throbbed with each pulse of his heartbeat. Broken memories floated around in his head like a jumbled up powerpoint presentation, and he couldn’t quite make sense of it all. 

Smoke. Fire. A knife on his throat. A pool of blood around his body. The feeling of suffocating, his vision fading in and out like someone was messing around with the focus knob on a microscope. A man staring down at him—N?

San’s face, his eyes wet with tears, his lips moving as he uttered words Wooyoung couldn’t hear. 

_San?_

San was at the lab?

“Wooyoung! Hey—I think he’s waking up!”

Wooyoung felt hands touching his face, and a voice spoke to him as blood dripped into his mouth. Human blood—it tasted familiar, but his mind was in too much of a fog to recall whose. 

“Ngh—“ Wooyoung grunted as something pressed against his lips. Someone’s arm? 

“Hey, can you hear me?” a voice asked. 

That voice, and the taste of his blood, it had to be… 

Hongjoong? 

“Can you open your eyes?” 

Wooyoung tried cracking his eyelids, lashes fluttering as he pried them open. Bright light made them flicker shut again, forcing him to blink a few times to adjust. He heard a couple sighs of relief, and he could make out Hongjoong’s face above him, his forearm pressed against Wooyoung’s lips. Hongjoong looked just the same as Wooyoung remembered—messy brown hair that he kept longer in the back, and dark circles under his eyes from staring at a monitor for hours on end. Wooyoung was at the lab, last he remembered, so Hongjoong's face was the last thing he expected upon waking up. Well, not that he really expected to wake up at all. His memories were a disorganized mess, but he distinctly remembered the coldness in his body as he teetered on the brink of death. 

“Oh, thank god. You scared the shit out of us,” Hongjoong scolded lightly, his eyebrows pinched with worry. 

“Hong…joong?” Wooyoung rasped, his throat raw and his chest wheezing with blood that had collected inside his lungs. 

Hongjoong shushed him and pressed his arm against Wooyoung’s mouth again. Blood leaked from the gash on his forearm onto Wooyoung’s tongue, and Wooyoung swallowed in desperate gulps, feeling the pain in his throat diminish the more he drank. Hongjoong was also type B—just like San, and the taste was heavenly as it slid down his aching throat, like drinking a big glass of milk after eating something spicy. Though, in this state, any blood type would have been a godsend. Wooyoung was painfully thirsty, so much so that it physically, tangibly hurt, not just as a desire, but as a _need._ He hadn't felt this thirsty since the day he was turned, when he'd been so out of his mind that he attacked his nurse and tore her throat out with his teeth in his haste to drink. He felt ravenous, only his body was so weak he could barely move. He kept drinking, until the burn in his throat faded into more of a dull sting.

Wooyoung felt slightly more cognisant after a few moments, able to open his eyes, for the most part, enough to see he was in the bunker where Hongjoong and Seonghwa lived. They called it “the bunker,” but really it was the basement of an old church on the outskirts of the city. It had been victim to a fire in the height of the war, as many churches were, and had been left to rot after the area had been evacuated. In need of a place to stay, Hongjoong and Seonghwa converted it into an underground hideaway, safe from the eyes of those trying to hunt them down. They’d converted it into a snazzy little light-proof apartment, and Wooyoung had lived in one of the spare rooms before moving to the Ruby full time. The bunker was like home base, a safe zone whenever he and Yeosang needed it. Home, even. The closest thing to it, at least.

Wooyoung recognized his surroundings immediately—he was in the living room, splayed out on the couch, his wet, bloodied clothes soaking into the beige upholstery. He turned his head enough to see Seonghwa crouched next to him, his eyebrows furrowed with a look of concern that matched Hongjoong’s. His black hair was neatly swept to the side, his appearance always tidy and demure in a way that made him stand out. Wooyoung always thought that Seonghwa was the one that looked the most like a vampire out of all of them, though his personality couldn't be any more opposite. Wooyoung hadn’t seen either of them in nearly a year, too wrapped up in other ordeals to have time to swing by. How the hell had Wooyoung gotten to the bunker? His memories of the night were hazy at best after getting his throat slashed, leaving him with many questions. 

“What… what happened?” Wooyoung croaked. 

The pain in his throat had ebbed enough for him to speak without wincing, Hongjoong’s blood working its way into his system, shrinking the gash until it faded into nothing but smooth, red-streaked skin. Hongjoong and Seonghwa threw each other a glance, then Seonghwa reached out a hand to wipe away a drop of blood running down Wooyoung’s chin before it could stain the couch. The couch was probably fucked anyway, since his clothes were soaked in blood like he’d been swimming in it, because, well—he practically had. With the way Seonghwa was looking at him, though, he was clearly more concerned about Wooyoung than the couch. 

“Yeosang carried you here. He said he found you outside the lab, everything was on fire, and your throat was sliced so bad you nearly bled out. It’s lucky Hongjoong was here tonight, hybrid blood might… might not have been enough,” Seonghwa explained, pressing his lips into a tight line at the idea of an alternate ending. “Yeosang gave you some of his, but it didn’t help much.”

Yeosang brought him? 

Wooyoung and Yeosang hadn’t been on speaking terms, last he’d checked. They hadn’t spoken since their falling out a week ago, when Yeosang had severed their business partnership in a cold yet justified act of self-servitude. 

“Yeosang did?” Wooyoung rasped, his brows furrowed in confusion. 

“Yeah.” It was Yeosang’s voice, quiet as he stepped into view, standing behind Seonghwa with a strange, unreadable expression that made Wooyoung’s stomach twist with worry. 

“How—why were you—” 

“I... went to see Val. Then I heard the fire alarms go off, and I ran downstairs immediately, and you were on the floor, covered in blood, and—” 

Yeosang stopped abruptly, scrubbing a hand over his mouth and holding it there with a weary sigh. He looked like a parent trying to figure out how to tell their kid the family dog “ran away.” Like there was something Wooyoung didn’t know, and Yeosang didn't know how to tell him. 

“And? And what?” Wooyoung prompted nervously. 

He felt an icy stab to his gut. 

_Did something happen to San?_

San had been there in the basement—cradling Wooyoung’s face in his hands, eyes full of tears and the scent of his blood in the air. The memory was hazy, his vision blurred from the smoke and blood loss, but he remembered the warmth of San’s hands against his icy skin, pulling him back from the edge like a lifeline. He remembered the sound of San’s voice; gentle, reassuring, though Wooyoung couldn’t make out his words. He held onto them in the darkness, fighting to stay awake as San forced fresh blood down his throat, warm and comforting like like the hands caressing his cheek. He remembered the warmth being ripped away, and the sound of San’s voice replaced with the furious yelling of someone unknown before the darkness swallowed him once again.

San had been in the basement—so why?

_Why isn’t he here?_

Wooyoung shot up, pulling himself upright so quickly the room started spinning, and Hongjoong had to grab him by the shoulders to keep him from tipping straight onto the floor. He fell back into the couch, still too weak to stand. He screwed his eyes shut to will away the dizziness, but his stomach twisted with a different kind of nausea—the kind that drinking blood wouldn't cure.

“Where’s San?” Wooyoung demanded, his voice easily betraying his anxiety. 

Yeosang wouldn’t meet his eyes, and Wooyoung felt like the ground was falling away beneath his feet. 

_Why aren't you saying anything?_

Yeosang took a deep breath before speaking. “Wooyoung, he— San saved your life. He got to you before I did, and he gave you enough of his blood to stop the bleeding. I could smell it on you. But the place was swarming with agents, and he… he, um…” Yeosang slowly lifted his gaze to meet Wooyoung’s, his usually bored expression replaced with something uncharacteristically dismal. “He got caught.” 

The words coming out of Yeosang’s mouth didn’t compute. Foreign words from a foreign language.

“Wh—I don’t—“ Wooyoung stammered. 

“They arrested him, Wooyoung. He—he begged me to take you somewhere safe.” Yeosang’s voice was barely above a whisper, like speaking quietly would somehow make the words hurt less. “He gave himself up to protect you.” 

Wooyoung’s chest felt like it had been carved open, his heart and lungs scooped out and thrown on the floor. 

No. Not possible. 

San was perfectly fine, waiting in the bar for the clock to strike midnight so he could ditch everything and run away with Wooyoung. He was fine. He had to be. They couldn’t have taken him away. It didn’t make sense. They were two hours from freedom—he couldn’t be gone. What about their plan? To hop into his car and drive off into god knows where? They were _so close,_ how could things have changed so quickly? San _saved his fucking life,_ and now he was gone? Just like that?

No. Not possible. _Not fair._

“No,” was all Wooyoung could say, and even that took everything out of him. “No, no, that can’t—he—“

Wooyoung shook his head slowly, dazed, the world crumbling to pieces around him. He felt like he was in limbo, stuck in a dream and unable to wake himself up. He felt hollow, empty. Nothing. Just a sack of flesh with bones and a skull, neither living nor dead, hopelessly small and helpless in the twisted hands of the universe. Once again, he was reminded of how cruel the world really was. As if he really needed a reminder. 

“Tell me you’re lying,” Wooyoung croaked, staring into Yeosang’s eyes like there was a _chance_ this was all just a big joke. 

“Wooyoung…” Yeosang looked drained. “I’m—I’m sorry.”

San was… gone? 

He wasn’t _dead_ —at least, not yet—but he was…gone. Getting taken to Confinement was a fate far worse than death, and that’s exactly where San was going. A place so wicked and vile it made Alcatraz look like a McDonald’s play place. A place where death sounded like paradise, a place hybrids feared like sinners in a confessional. Wooyoung had never been anywhere near it, but the urban legends of prisoners driven mad from torture haunted his mind and chilled him to the core. Wooyoung’s stomach twisted at the idea of San being held captive, his hands and feet in shackles as they dragged him off to meet his fate. He imagined San screaming in pain as they forced him to spill every drop of information he had, writhing in agony as they—

 _No_ —Wooyoung couldn't think about that. He refused to.

"This... no—this can't—" Wooyoung whispered, his voice cracking.

 _It was all his fault. All of it._

Wooyoung couldn’t breathe. His lungs felt like they were being crushed, his chest tightening like some kind of hellhound was crunching his ribs in its jaws. The type of agony that made him miss the feeling of N's knife against his throat, because at least that was something he could handle. This was different—it hurt worse than breaking every bone in his body, and there was nothing he could do to stop it. Nothing to calm the feeling of raw hopelessness and despair that ate at him from within. This was exactly what he'd been afraid of when he shut off his heart and locked it away—serves him right for giving San the key. His eyes were hot with tears, a sensation he hadn’t felt in so long he’d almost forgotten what it was like. When was the last time he’d cried? When he was still human? He couldn’t even remember. 

_San was gone, and it was Wooyoung’s fault._

Wooyoung should have left when he’d had the chance. He’d let his emotions get in the way, and for that, San would suffer. Yeosang was right—Wooyoung was an idiot. He let his judgement become clouded, and the consequences were disastrous. If only he hadn’t gotten carried away with his little game, pulling San over to the dark side for his own amusement, toying with him from a safe distance, no strings, no feelings. Or so he thought. Before he knew it, he was tumbling head over heels, swept up by the deadly current of his own design. It wasn’t a game anymore—and the stakes were too high. If only he hadn’t let that happen.

_If only he hadn’t fallen in love with San._

Wooyoung was an idiot, and thanks to him, they both ended up getting hurt. 

Tears spilled down Wooyoung’s cheeks, falling freely like a dam had burst somewhere inside of him. He buried his face into his hands, trembling with broken sobs as he cried openly, unable to hold back his raw, festering emotions. He didn't even have any room left for embarrassment or shame—filled to the brink with a stinging anguish that pushed aside everything else. The couch dipped as Seonghwa slid next to him, wrapping an arm around Wooyoung’s shoulders and pulling him close. Wooyoung leaned into his touch, letting his tears soak into Seonghwa’s shoulder as they flowed like rivers down his face. 

“It’s not fair,” Wooyoung sobbed, muffled by the fabric of Seonghwa’s shirt. “He—he was quitting the Ops. It was h-his last night.”

“He was?” Yeosang sounded stunned. 

“Ops?” Wooyoung heard Hongjoong mutter confusedly under his breath. 

“It’s all my fault. If I hadn’t—if I’d just—“ Wooyoung didn’t even know what he was trying to say. 

Seonghwa tried his best to comfort him, rubbing a hand along Wooyoung’s back in an effort to calm him down. The sight of Wooyoung crying inconsolably was something new and unexpected for everyone—including Wooyoung himself. He wasn’t used to letting his emotions go unchecked, and for good reason. Because it _hurt._ So fucking much.

“I don’t know who this San person is, but from the looks of it he’s someone very special,” Seonghwa said gently. 

_Someone very special_. Wooyoung cried harder. 

“Hey, shh, listen—Yeosang said he saved your life, right? Wouldn’t that mean we owe him a favor?” 

“Huh?” Wooyoung sniffled pitifully. “W-what do you…”

Seonghwa shot the others a look before speaking again. “We’ll just have to bust him out.” 

Wooyoung gave a cynical laugh, wiping at his face with the back of his hand. “Yeah, right. Bust him out of Confinement? No one’s ever pulled that off.” 

“I guess we’ll just have to be the first.”

Wooyoung pulled back to look at Seonghwa with wide eyes. Seonghwa’s expression was sincere as could be—he was serious. Tears kept rolling uninvited down Wooyoung’s cheeks, his eyes puffy and uncomfortably wet. 

Break San out of Confinement? Seriously?

Of course Wooyoung wanted to, but it was a long shot. Scratch that—a suicide mission. Wooyoung didn’t mind risking his own life for the sake of San’s, but he would need some serious backup for something as insane as a maximum security prison break. The place was specifically designed against hybrids, so it wouldn't exactly be a cake walk. Even if he were to recruit a few more hybrids to tag along, it would still be a kamikaze mission at best. 

Unless… 

It was small, but a glimmer of hope started to bloom inside Wooyoung’s chest. Sure, Confinement was designed against hybrids—but not ones doped up on V2. Taking it might just give them the boost they need to storm the place on equal ground. Unfortunately, everything they needed to make it had been fried in the explosion. The equipment, formulas, everything. The whole point of incinerating the lab was to wipe it from existance, which meant they were back at square one. However, if Yeonjun had been able to create it once, he should be able to do it again. Granted, it took him over seven years to get it right, but this time they’d be going in with experience. If Wooyoung could convince Yeonjun to come back home and work on a new V2 formula, then this plan might have more than a snowball’s chance in hell at working. It was still a big risk, but Wooyoung was willing to do whatever it took to get San back. 

San had risked everything to save Wooyoung’s life—now it was Wooyoung’s turn. 

“If he sacrificed himself for you, that makes him one of us. I may not be able to help much physically, but I can try to hack the security system and halt their defenses for a bit. I had a hand in designing it, after all,” Hongjoong chimed in.

“I’ll go too,” Yeosang added firmly. “Hongjoong’s right, he’s… he’s one of us now. I take back everything I said before, about... you know.”

Wooyoung sniffled, giving him an appreciative nod. If that were the case, then they’d have three hybrids and one brainiac human on their side, plus Yeonjun, if he agreed to come. Assuming Yeonjun was able to produce another batch of V2— _V3?_ —a handful of doped-up hybrids still wouldn’t be enough to storm the most guarded prison fortress north of the equator. They'd need some way to bolster their offense… 

And Wooyoung knew just who to ask.

San cracked his eyes open, immediately met with a throbbing pain all over his body. His head ached like he’d cracked it against a slab of concrete, his windpipe felt bruised and tender as he swallowed a mouthful of metallic saliva, and a wave of pain jolted through his fractured ribs with every breath. 

Worst of all, his hands were cuffed in his lap, the rigid back of a metal chair digging uncomfortably into his spine. His clothes were different—a bright red jumpsuit, the words “Federal Maximum Security Confinement Facility” block printed in black letters across the chest. San was confused for a good few moments, before the memories of what had transpired came rushing back into his sore head all at once. 

_Confinement_. San was in Confinement. Fucking perfect.

One of the most notorious prison facilities in the world, famous for holding the baddest of the bad behind its bars. A place for hybrids, terrorists, murderers, and traitors, like San. It was almost flattering, in a way. They saw him as enough of a threat to stick him in the nastiest, most ruthless prison around. The place was built right into the heart of the city, whatever that said about the government’s philosophy. The nation’s crowning achievement—a glorious underground fortress impenetrable enough to withstand an all-out nuclear war, which the last one had come awfully close to. 

San had been there plenty of times as a result of his job, but never as the one in the red jumpsuit. He’d previously been the one responsible for locking people up—how the tables had turned. How ironic would it be if he bumped into someone he’d arrested? Hell, the place would be crawling with them, so it wouldn't come as a shock. He’d lost track of how many people he’d put behind bars. He didn't have enough fingers to count on.

Come to think of it, San would have been the first Ops agent ever to be sent to Confinement as a prisoner. There were a few agents who’d been fired in the past, but never arrested. He could only imagine what his colleagues would be thinking upon hearing the news—Choi San, talented young agent, known for his friendly demeanor and deadly skill set, arrested on grounds of treason, conspiracy, withholding evidence, and _fucking a damn hybrid_. He was the bad apple, the snake in the grass, and none of them had even the slightest clue. San wished he could see the looks on all their faces. Priceless, no doubt.

As for Yunho, was he being praised as a hero? For bravely putting his friendship aside—ha, more like _stabbing San in the back_ —in the name of justice? Or would Yunho be interrogated on suspicion of aiding San in his crimes, given how close they’d been? San hoped it was the latter. He wanted Yunho to suffer as much as he was.

No—

He would make Yunho suffer _more_. 

If San ever got his hands on him, Yunho was a dead man. 

He’d gone and stabbed San in the back, all because San loved the wrong person. What was he—Catherine fucking Howard? San had a one-way ticket to the guillotine, thanks to Yunho ratting him out. 

Not that San was completely innocent. He was just as much of a backstabber Yunho was, especially in the eyes of those who'd trusted trust him. He’d betrayed his comrades, his team, his best friend. San would be seen as the villain here, no doubt about that. San could almost laugh. They didn’t even know the true extent of what he’d done—how deep the iceberg really went. 

San had blood on his hands—hell, they were soaked in it—and they had no idea. Not that it even mattered—hybrid related offenses were punished as severely as murder, and they would torture him within an inch of his sanity for every drop of intel he had. Thanks to Yunho, the bureau knew San had ties to at least two hybrids, which meant they weren’t going to let him off easy. 

San wasn’t stupid. He knew the drill. 

They were going to torture him. It wasn’t a matter of _if_. They knew he had intel, they wanted it, and they would do everything in their power to get it. _They_ being his former allies, how hilariously appropriate. San knew all the techniques, it was just a matter of keeping his mind in tact though the pain. He would rather die than give a shred of information about Wooyoung. Not that they’d let him—at least, not until he gave them what they wanted. Death was too easy, too humane. Begging for it only made them more cruel. 

San was never going to talk. He would spend the rest of his days rotting in a cell, withering away into nothing. 

What a joke. 

His life was just one big, sick joke. 

Maybe he’d made a deal with the devil when he’d meant to pray to god—trading his soul for Wooyoung’s life, damning himself in the process. Twisting fate in Wooyoung’s favor at the price of his own, San’s fate now in the hands of a gleeful, laughing demon. What a joke. At least Wooyoung was safe, that’s all that mattered. San didn’t give a shit about his own fate so long as Wooyoung survived. He shoved away the sadness in his chest, pushing it back into the depths of his mind as best he could. It was no good to him, not here. He had to get rid of anything they could possibly use against him. No more anger, no more sorrow, no more love. It was all just leverage for them, and he had to erase it. 

San looked around the room. It was empty, save for himself, a chair, a table, and the plane of glass on the opposing wall. A two-way mirror. He’d been here before, on the other side of it. How strange, being on the other end. Helpless, incapacitated, defeated. Just another criminal caught in the web of so-called justice. A liar, a scumbag. Agent Choi was as good as dead, replaced by a treacherous imposter. There was a camera on the other side of the glass that San couldn't see, but he knew it was there. Were his colleagues watching him? Placing bets on when he would crack? Ten minutes, twenty minutes, an hour, a day, a week, a year?

Ah, too funny. 

San wanted to laugh. So he did. 

He laughed hard, a small giggle building until it became a shrieking, hysterical howl, laughing until his fractured ribs screamed in his chest and his throat burned and tears prickled in his eyes. He laughed like it was the funniest joke on the planet—because it was. His life was a joke, he was a joke, the Ops, Yunho—everything. Too damn funny. 

The door behind him clicked open, the reflective glass showing a figure joining San in the empty room. 

“What’s so funny?” the man asked, his tone annoyingly smug. 

It was San’s boss. 

_Former_ boss, he reminded himself. Well, more like his former boss’s boss—the big bad of the Ops division. The Director came to personally interrogate his rogue little mutt? What an honor. It almost felt like a promotion. 

San caught his breath, his face aching from the huge smile plastered across his cheeks. 

“Ah, it’s pretty ironic, huh?” San panted, a few residual laughs escaping his chest. 

“Mm, it is. How does it feel to be on this end of things, Agent Choi San?” the Director asked, stepping around the table. “Or do you prefer to be called by your inmate identification number?”

“Feels pretty damn hilarious.”

“Well, I’m sure you won’t be laughing for long.”

San’s smile turned cold. “I’m sure not.” 

“I’m shocked, Choi. To think that one of my own would turn on me like this. I even gave you a second chance—I dropped your assault charges because I saw a great amount of potential in you. My instincts aren’t usually wrong about this kind of thing, but nobody's perfect. I should have known you’d be a troublemaker after all.” 

Wooyoung’s words from that night at the bar echoed in his head:

 _You guys are like pit bulls—bred to kill, and praised for aggression. You really think there’s nothing sketchy about that?_

It's not that San had disagreed at the time, but it's like the veil in front of his eyes had been lifted, revealing a cess pool of rotten, putrid sewage that had been right in front of him all along. Justice, integrity, virtue—it was all a lie. He _knew_ it was a lie the whole fucking time, but his apathy had dissolved into a furious unrest as his views shifted, misaligning from those of his superiors. The hand that fed was feeding him grass-fed, grade A bullshit, puppeteering those with a strong sense of justice into erasing the government's embarrassing mistake. The hybrid project was just a mistake, and sweeping it under the rug with the use of deadly force was clearly the best option. Disagreement was treason, and traitors were scoundrels. San would take being a scoundrel any day if it meant protecting the hybrid he loved. The _person_ he loved. 

“Bite the hand that feeds, and all that,” San muttered under his breath. 

“Right—exactly. I stuck my neck out for you, and you went and bit the hand that feeds. Help me understand, Choi,” the Director continued, his voice balanced somewhere between a stern father and a caring mentor. 

San knew his shtick. It was an act; The Director wasn’t really planning to offer forgiveness. 

“I guess I was just sick of being kept on a choke chain.”

“So, instead, you were going to disappear with your little hybrid boyfriend?” He paused, meeting San’s look of confusion. “Come on, don’t play dumb. We searched your apartment. You were all packed up and ready to go, even your bank account was empty. Looks like we caught you just in time.”

San scoffed, shaking his head in irritation. 

“Where were you planning on going, if you don’t mind me asking?” 

“Where’s my lawyer?” San sneered. 

The Director’s calm, gentle aura shifted noticeably. He clicked his tongue, his gaze settling on San with a chilling glint, silently asserting his power. _Don't fuck with me, Choi. I can make your life hell, just say the word._

Much better. San was sick of this farce he’d been keeping up, as if San didn’t know damn well he was just playing nice.

“Come now, Choi. You know you’re not getting out of this. You think someone who tarnishes the name of the whole Special Operations Division gets to have a fair trial?” the Director purred rhetorically, lips curling into a malicious smile. "You don't have any innocence to prove."

 _There it is_. 

They were playing dirty, just as San expected. Evidence had a way of disappearing when it was convenient to the law. Warrants forged, documents misplaced, records buried. Sometimes, even mysterious ‘disappearances’ would occur, where people’s entire identities would be wiped from existence—no evidence of said person ever existing in the first place. It was an open secret that the government did whatever they wanted—no repercussions, no questions, no one to stop them. 

A fair trial? What a joke. San knew from the start he wouldn’t be getting one of those. The whole fucking court system was a joke. 

“A conviction without trial. Glad to see justice is alive and well,” San joked, his voice laced with sarcasm.

“Do you know what _fiat justitia, et pereat mundus_ means, Choi?” 

“Let justice be done, though the world perish,” San answered dryly. 

“Glad to see you paid attention in police academy. Exactly, it means that justice is our penultimate goal, regardless of the cost. You should know this better than anyone.”

_The world is perishing_ because _of your so-called justice, you jackass._

“Yeah, you’re not afraid of stepping on some toes to suit your cause. I get it.” 

The Director leaned closer to San, breaching his personal space just enough for it to be uncomfortable. He was trying to make his presence more intimidating, and San held his ground with a sharp glare. 

“I’m gonna be doing more than just stepping on your toes if you don’t give me what I want,” the Director threatened. 

“I was wondering when the threats would start coming,” San sneered. 

“Things are going to get a lot worse from here, Choi. The next guy who questions you won’t be half as nice as I am. So, why don’t you start with some names? Tell me the name of your little bloodsucking boyfriend, and we’ll go from there.” 

“Fuck you.” 

“You sure have a lot of bite marks, don’t you? You must have been seeing him for months, at least. You get off like that, or were you just donating to charity?”

“Mm, definitely the first.”

The Director scoffed. “Disgusting little shit. What’s his name, huh? Let's make things easy.”

Not a chance in hell. 

A smile formed on San’s face. It could be his last chance to have a little fun, so he was going to milk it for all it was worth. 

“Fine. You want names? Better yet—I’ll give you a full confession, yeah?”

“Let’s hear it.” 

San leaned in, letting smugness bleed from his every word. 

_“I killed Agent Byun.”_

San could practically hear the record scratch in the Director’s head, and San’s dark smile widened even further. The look of shock on his face was so picturesque that San wished he could take a photo. A beautiful blindside, too good to pass up. 

“That’s all you get from me, boss,” San purred, filling the stunned silence. 

“Why?” the Director demanded, regaining his composure with impressive speed. “Why Byun?”

San thought for a moment, then settled on a truthful answer. 

“The truth? He was in my way. That’s all.” 

Completely true. The only reason San killed Agent Byun was because he happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time, and consequently threw a wrench in things. He didn’t have anything against Byun, specifically—he would have killed any agent who’d caught him sneaking around in the basement of the Espada. Nothing personal. 

Well, _now_ it was personal. He wanted to rip the head off of every goddamn agent in the whole division with his bare hands—starting with Jeong Yunho. 

Oh, the things he would do to Jeong fucking Yunho. 

The Director shook his head. “You amaze me, Choi San. I thought you were one of my best. Turns out you’re just a rotten, depraved killer.”

“You flatter me.” 

“Any last words before we take you to the Box? Think carefully.” 

_The Box._

The most infamous, legendary, cutting-edge torture chamber around. _Torture chamber_ sounded a little medieval—it was more like a giant display case, a clear class cube that allowed masked spectators to watch an interrogation from all sides. It was a popular entertainment destination for government officials and wretched politicians who liked to watch people scream. It was reserved for the most high-profile cases, the toughest nuts to crack, and of course, hybrids. It was almost an honor to be regarded so highly. One of the big dogs, the worst of the worst.

San had come to terms with his fate. 

He smiled, looking straight through the mirrored glass at where he knew the camera was positioned. All of this was undoubtedly being broadcast in the AV room back at headquarters, where all the agents would be watching intently, including Yunho. They could place bets all they wanted—San was always the one who raked in the chips. He wasn't going down without a fight. If it’s a show they wanted, then so be it. 

San looked straight into the camera, giving his best heartthrob smile and a sultry wink. 

“Jeong Yunho—I’ll see you in hell.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the ending of this chapter is based off of [this one very specific san gif](https://64.media.tumblr.com/9e5621b6e556750e2c918b60209008c9/e99b705d7a35ae5a-77/s540x810/af0649a60a533f71cdfdeba8e0fc0c34f4d06b71.gifv)
> 
> i think i am in fact losing my marbles because i had a dream where i was basically san except i was actually me and i’d been arrested and i was in a room with my hands cuffed while being interrogated it was fucking wild i guess this fic has just deeply invaded my mind
> 
> twitter & tumblr @ yungwooyoung
> 
> fic playlist that goes hard as fuck [here!!](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/5eGeySTdOkbL7GnwxifYW7?si=Srtv7kQNSbyvS_ZwvoA6hg)


	21. i'm far from the devil, kid

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> heads up for slight gore(?) at the very end of this chapter idk something kinda icky happens

“Give me your keys.”

“Huh?”

“I need to borrow your car.” 

“Why?”

“Because mine is still at the Ruby.”

“No, I mean _why?_ ”

Wooyoung sighed. “Don’t ask. C’mon, I swear I’ll bring it back in one piece.”

Yeosang narrowed his eyes. “Where are you going?”

“I said don’t ask. I’ll explain later, ok?”

Yeosang fished his keys from his pocket, holding them protectively in his fist. “I don’t know, you get this look on your face whenever you’re about to do something stupid.”

“Good to know.” Wooyoung held out his hand, Yeosang stared at it apprehensively. “Seriously, give ‘em. I’ll explain everything if it goes well.”

“ _If_ it goes well? The hell does that mean? You know what, nevermind. Go nuts.” Yeosang dropped his keys into Wooyoung’s palm. The shiny BMW logo stared back at him, and he missed his Audi already. Yeosang’s car wasn’t nearly as sexy as Wooyoung’s R8, but it would have to do. He wasn’t in any position to complain.

If this didn’t work, he was fucked.

Coming alone might have been a fool’s errand, but that was exactly the point. If Wooyoung wanted to win over Zico, he would have to prove himself crazy enough to deserve it. What better way than walking straight into a hornet’s nest of vampire nutjobs and trigger-happy gangsters with no backup to speak of? 

Wooyoung kicked the bar’s doors open with a loud bang, dragging a bloodied hybrid though in a chokehold as he made his entrance. Zico was on the other side of the bar, lounged across the couch with a magazine over his face, long pink dreadlocks splayed out everywhere, completely unperturbed by the doors suddenly bursting open. Wooyoung marched over, shoving the hybrid to the floor with an angry huff. The air in the bar was thick with cigar smoke, the scent of tobacco and cloves tickling his bloodied nose. 

He’d had a hell of a time getting to the bar, accosted by nearly a dozen armed goons who had no qualms about loading him with bullets. He’d managed to dodge most of them, minus the one that was currently making his leg throb and bleed into his jeans. The goons were one thing—armed or not, humans were no match for him. What Wooyoung wasn’t expecting, however, was a fucking Black Dragon affiliated hybrid to come up from behind him and nearly knock his head off his shoulders. 

That had been a rough fight, and both parties came out bruised and bloodied. The hybrid had icy blonde hair and a thick Aussie accent, and he'd been hell bent on barring Wooyoung from entry. Wooyoung broke both the guy’s arms and he still put up a fight, kicking and screaming as Wooyoung dragged him toward the bar by the neck, using him as a shield against the bullets still coming his way. Poor guy was swiss cheese by the time Wooyoung finally made it to Zico’s bar. Oh, well. He should be fine. 

“What, parlay doesn’t work anymore?” Wooyoung called as he crossed the bar. He spat blood onto the floor as it pooled into his mouth, the nasty metallic tang coating his tongue. He hated the taste of his own blood. He felt a hot trickle down his temple from where the little Aussie shit had struck him with the back of his .45, and he dabbed at it with his sleeve as he approached Zico's laid back figure. 

“Huh?” Zico mumbed through the pages of the magazine. “Parlay? Who am I, Captain Barbosa? Oh, it’s Phony Fangs. Where’s that other kiddo?”

“That’s why I’m here.”

Zico slid the magazine from his face with a tattooed hand, giving a lazy yawn. “And you felt the need to mangle my subordinates? Shoulda just used the code.”

“What code?”

“Ah, shit. Guess I forgot. Say _nalina_ if you wanna get in without being killed.”

“That would have been good to know,” Wooyoung huffed, dragging the back of his hand across his face, wiping away the blood that dripped from his nose. 

“My bad. So, come to play another hand?” 

“I came to strike a bargain.” Wooyoung sank down onto the couch that faced Zico's, the black vinyl squeaking under his ass.

“Ah, after you so coldly declined my offer last time?”

“Well, you did shoot me.”

“You put yourself in front of my gun. Not my problem.”

“Whatever—this bargain, it’s a win-win. Will you hear me out or not?”

“Awfully bold, but alright. Let’s hear it.”

“You familiar with Confinement—the Federal Maximum Security Confinement Facility?” Wooyoung asked, throwing up air-quotes.

“I didn’t just fall off the turnip truck, Phony. I know of it. Pretty shady place, from what I've heard—like a modern day Tower of London, yeah?” 

“That’s putting it lightly.”

“Let me guess—that’s where kiddo is, and you want him back.”

“How did you—”

“I could just tell. You wouldn’t ask for my help unless it was for something really crazy, probably something that would get you killed, such as breaking into this prison fortress. What makes you think you deserve my help? I did like that other kiddo, but I’m not exactly fond of _your_ kind. You’re all cocky and drunk off power. Stronger than humans, but too soft to be considered vampires. Pisses me off,” Zico scoffed. 

_Soft?_ If hybrids had a reputation for anything, it certainly wasn’t for being _soft_. He wondered what Zico meant by that. Wooyoung ignored the blatant insult in favor of pitching his spiel, threading his fingers together between his knees as he leaned forward on the edge of the couch. Hopefully they could put aside their differences in favor of a common goal, but then again, Wooyoung was never quite sure how to get a read on him. Zico’s _goals_ were an enigma at best.

“We’ll join Red Tiger,” Wooyoung proposed, his tone serious. 

“That’s nice and all, but you’ll have to do better than that,” Zico drawled, not even bothering to crack his eyes open to look at Wooyoung. 

“That’s not all,” Wooyoung continued. “What if Red Tiger wanted to make an appearance again? Like it did in the past, ruling the streets as more than just an urban legend? You once said you go where the chaos is—why not make some chaos?” 

San told him all about Red Tiger’s history after last time, spilling the government’s classified accounts that had been torn from the history books and rinsed from all public record. How the gang had terrorized cities all over the world, from Hong Kong to Chicago, reaching its peak in the days of the American prohibition era, monopolizing the illegal booze industry and marionetting the police out of fear and corruption. Now nothing more than an urban legend, Red Tiger had once been the king of the concrete jungle, so to speak. 

Their disappearance was so sudden that many assumed them to have been wiped out by Black Dragon, the other organized crime titan of the era. The existence of vampires hadn’t exactly been common knowledge until the past decade, so many would think a resurgence of Red Tiger to be something completely impossible. Little did they know the original leaders were still around, lying dormant for decades upon decades, like an aneurysm waiting to rupture. At least, Wooyoung _hoped_ it was ready to rupture. 

That was his plan—convince Zico to rally his troops for anarchy. The shithole regime was long overdue for an uprising, ripe for siege, and using Red Tiger to storm Confinement would be the perfect catalyst. Not only would it allow him to free San, but freeing the other prisoners and recruiting them for the cause was like bolstering their ranks with hundreds of decorated officers, so to speak. High level, ruthless criminals, the worst of the worst, all working under Red Tiger like bloodthirsty Spartan soldiers. 

Not to mention the fact that N was undoubtedly following a similar thought process, searching for someone to replace Yeonjun to rekindle the V2 plan, and there’s no way in hell Wooyoung would let him get his hands on all those inmates first. Yeonjun wasn’t the only chemist in town, so it’s possible that someone would be able to make something similar to V2, especially knowing that it’s been done before. Call it spite, but Wooyoung didn’t want N getting his hands on a new V2 and a shitload of angry criminals before Wooyoung did. 

Wooyoung’s seething rage toward the government was back full force, and he was out for blood. After the V2 plan fell through, he felt lost, like he was in a state of limbo, with nothing to live for and no hope for revenge. His life’s goal had been flushed down the toilet, leaving him empty handed and starved for a purpose. Then San came along and gave him _something_ to live for—something completely new, something… _exhilarating_. San made him feel whole, _alive_ , and just like that, he was gone. 

And for that, the pigs would suffer. He’d make sure of it. 

“Because I’m lazy. Why do you think we disappeared in the first place? I got sick of being in charge of all those morons,” Zico drawled, stretching his arms over his head with a lengthy yawn as if to emphasize his point. 

“Isn’t now the perfect time, though?” Wooyoung argued. “You have an army of angry criminals locked away, dreaming of the day they can snap the necks of the guys who put them there. The most dangerous people alive are in that prison—a lot of them are hybrids, now. Imagine the kind of army you’d have at your disposal if they joined your cause.”

The place where only the baddest of the bad were kept, and San was one of them. 

“My _cause_ , huh? What is my _cause_ , exactly?”

“Chaos, destruction. Entertainment. Watching shit burn.” Wooyoung knew Zico wasn’t interested in being a political mastermind, he was only interested in whatever kept his boredom at bay. 

“You got me there. I do like watching shit burn,” Zico hummed. “But if I wanted to wrangle up all these bad guys for my own gain, wouldn’t I have done it already? I’m not entirely convinced of your case, Phony.”

Wooyoung didn’t want to come off as desperate, but he _was_. He wanted to save San, that was a given, but the stakes were potentially much higher than that. His greatest fear at the moment—on top of not being able to save San—was that N would recruit the Confinement inmates first. If N was able to get his hands on someone to create a new version of V2, setting Wooyoung’s original plan into motion, then they would have a whole different type of chaos on their hands, one that Wooyoung wasn’t looking forward to. 

Zico cracked his eyes open, throwing Wooyoung a skeptical glance. “You want to save mister policeman from the slammer, but that’s not all. There’s something you’re not telling me. I can hear it in your heartbeat.”

Wooyoung couldn’t exactly control his heartbeat, and Zico had the uncanny ability to read people like a polygraph. Should he tell Zico? About N—about why San got arrested in the first place? That would mean telling him about the lab, about V2, and the idea of spilling all that to a crazy wildcard vampire gang boss seemed like a pretty bad idea. He wasn’t _lying_ , per se, but he was definitely omitting. 

Zico closed his eyes again. “No matter, I guess. You’re desperate, I can see that.”

It shouldn’t have come as a shock that Zico was able to tell. There was no point in hiding it—if Wooyoung was willing to seek out Zico for help, it was obvious he was desperate. He wouldn’t go ask the guy who shot him for help out of anything less than an act of desperation, that’s for sure. 

Wooyoung sighed. “Yes, I’m desperate, but my plan would kill two—no, _three_ birds with one stone. You help me break San and everyone else out of Confinement, thus enlisting them into your army, and Red Tiger rises from the dead to shake things up. And both San and I will join, granted he’s freed. It would be a win-win.”

“This… _third_ bird. That’s the thing you’re not telling me.” Hmph. Perceptive bastard. 

“Let’s just say I pissed someone off and he’s looking to get his hands on all those prisoners before I do,” Wooyoung admitted. It was the very bare-bones explanation of what had happened, but not false. 

“Ah, so that’s it. You want to steal his pawns before he can use them against you.”

“...Yes.” 

“Well, Phony, you know I like games. Why didn’t you just say so? You know how to speak my language—just make it into a game that’s worth playing.” 

Wooyoung sighed again. “Ok, fine. I want a Red Tiger resurgence to suit my own interests, is that better?”

“Better. I’ll listen.”

“I want San back, I want revenge on all the pigs that took him from me, and there’s someone in particular I want dead. Having Red Tiger under my control would help me achieve all of those things.”

“Oh, _under your control_ , huh? You have the gall to come up to me and ask me to hand you the reins for your petty little temper tantrum?” Zico smirked, raising his eyebrows in amusement. 

“That’s exactly what I’m saying. You have all the pieces, and unlike you, I actually like chess.”

“You’re an idiot, kid. And who said I didn’t like chess?”

“You hate having to act as the general, right? It’s too much of a pain in the ass. And I know I’m an idiot,” Wooyoung laughed. “I’m an idiot with nothing to lose.”

“Nothing? I don’t buy that. Very rarely does someone have _nothing_ to lose,” Zico scoffed. 

“Try me.”

Zico narrowed his eyes, like he was reading Wooyoung from the inside out. He probably was, actually. His perception combined with his ability to hear and decipher the patterns of people’s heartbeats made him a fearsome psychoanalyst. No wonder he liked poker so much. The dark smile that blossomed on his face unsettled Wooyoung to the core. 

“What you’re telling me is that you’d do anything to save kiddo from the slammer, is that it? _Anything_ is awfully all-encompassing. What if I told you to cut off all your fingers, huh? What if I said, ‘ok, chew off both of your feet, then we’ll talk.’ What then?”

“If it meant getting him back, I’d do it.” 

Cut off his fingers? Easy. There isn’t much in this world that would hurt more than having San taken away from him. He’d cut out his tongue and pull out his teeth if that’s what it took. 

“Figures. You strike me as kind of a martyr. That’s no fun. You’re a good kid underneath all of this, well… misfortune, I guess. You got dealt a pretty bad hand, but you’ve got a good heart, I can just tell. I’d like to see what you’re capable of when given a little push. You want revenge, and you wanna save that other crazy kiddo. How far are you willing to go?”

“Fingers, toes, my soul, you name it. You want it, it’s yours,” Wooyoung challenged. 

“Your _soul_ , huh? That’s awfully cliche. Sure, whatever, let’s go with that. You’ll trade your soul to me in exchange for my resources?” Zico asked with a smirk. 

“A deal with the devil, then?”

It _was_ cliche, but he really would sell his soul to the devil to get San back. San was the only thing that gave his pathetic, aimless life any meaning, and his soul was worthless to him anyway. Whatever was left of it, if anything. Maybe his soul was already gone—luckily they were talking in figuratives. 

“I’m far from the devil, kid, but I’ll take the compliment anyway. What if I was? Would you do it?” 

“Yes.” Wooyoung’s answer was immediate. 

“No hesitation. I like that. Well, consider me the devil, then. You’ll trade your soul to me for my help?”

“Yes, I will. Gladly.”

Zico smiled, and the coyness of it sent a shiver down Wooyoung’s spine. “The thing is, this soul of yours, it’s still… fresh. You’re not nearly as cold as you think you are, I’ll say that much.”

“How so?” Wooyoung frowned. He didn’t like where this was going. 

“You don’t kill for fun. You drink from donors, that in itself says a lot. You see that waitress over there?” Zico paused to nod his head in her direction. “She’s cute, and she smells like baby formula, which leads me to believe she had a kid. Works for the mafia to pay the bills, very commendable. She’s not stupid, she knows who we are. She must love her kid a lot if she’s willing to go that far. What if I told you to snap her neck and bring me her eyeballs?”

Wooyoung swallowed. 

Killing someone who did him wrong was one thing, killing some random, innocent mother was something else entirely. He didn’t even know her. Taking her life for no reason would be… cruel. Heinous, vile. It would make him a monster, just like everyone assumed him to be. It would make him no different than R, or N for that matter, treating innocent lives as disposable in favor of pursuing a higher goal. Exactly what Wooyoung was trying to avoid by toasting the lab. 

“I… I don’t know,” Wooyoung admitted quietly. 

“You’re willing to trade your own soul, but what about someone else’s?”

Zico already had him wrapped up in another game before he even knew it. No dice, no cards, no chips, but Wooyoung was already in too deep to throw the match. Folding wasn’t an option, not when San’s freedom was on the line. He would wager his own life in a heartbeat, but sacrificing innocents wasn’t in his dogma. Not that he really had one. 

“That’s just it, Phony Fangs. You’re only as mean as you need to be. You have the brain of a mastermind, but the heart of a child. You’re full of as much idealism as you are revenge, and that’s gonna hold you back. You’re not gonna get anywhere with that attitude. Come back when you learn to loosen up a little.”

Wooyoung wasn’t used to being the one psychoanalyzed. He was good at reading people—someone else reading him like a book unsettled him to the core. Zico barely knew him, yet somehow he was able to tell _so much_ just from looking. Nearly a thousand years of experience under his belt made him an expert psychologist, apparently. A PhD was just child’s play in comparison. 

_Come back when you learn to loosen up a little._

No, Wooyoung couldn’t leave. Not until he got what he wanted. With San gone, he had no purpose. San _was_ his purpose. 

He would do _anything_ to save San. Whose life mattered more to him—some stranger’s, or San’s?

The answer was obvious. 

Wooyoung stood up from the couch, his expression cold as he walked up to the waitress and grabbed her by the hair. She cursed in protest, kicking and clawing at his arm as he dragged her back over to Zico’s couch, screaming at him to let her go. Zico was right—she did smell like baby formula. Wooyoung’s nose wasn’t as keen as a full blooded vampire’s, but it was obvious from this close. He could smell the shampoo in her hair, and the perfume on her skin, the little things that blended together to make up her own unique scent. She was unique, her own person. Someone’s daughter, someone’s mother. 

“Let me go!” she screamed, thrashing in Wooyoung’s hold. 

Zico’s lips raised in a smirk as he met Wooyoung’s gaze. “Oh? You _are_ a killer, huh? ”

Her eyes widened at Zico's words. She thrashed hard, trying desperately to escape Wooyoung's grasp. The waitress fell to her knees, and Wooyoung placed his hands on either side of her face. She tried to scramble away, but he held her in place with a firm grip. Wooyoung pictured her cradling an infant in her arms, gently cooing it to sleep with the soft soprano of a nursery rhyme. He imagined the baby looking just like her, a tiny replica of its young, hard working mother. A mother who worked under the table, churning out long graveyard shifts in a bar run by the mafia just to keep her kid fed. 

She didn’t deserve to die. Not one bit. 

“P-please! Please, wait! I—I have a son, he’s—he’s almost a year old, I’ll do anything, please!” she sobbed. 

_I’ll do anything._

“Ah, so I was right then? You have a little one at home, girlie?” Zico asked casually.

“Y-yes, I do, h-he needs me!” 

“What’s his name, hm?” 

Zico was blatantly testing him. As if to say, _simply killing a stranger isn't enough._

“Ronnie—h-his name is Ronnie,” the waitress stuttered. 

"Ronnie, how cute. You work tough hours here, don’t you? You saving up for college for your little boy? A good mommy, giving him a nice, easy life?”

Zico was asking questions to get to know her, making it as personal as possible. It was so simple, yet so vicious. Zico was pushing him to the limit, seeing how far he was willing to go. He made it impossible for Wooyoung to separate himself from his target, making it so that she wasn’t just another face in the crowd. She was a person, with feelings, who was currently shaking with fear in Wooyoung’s grasp. She was scared of Wooyoung, because he was a monster. Someone who killed. Someone _meant_ to kill.

This poor waitress would do anything to protect her son, the person she loved most. She would do anything to keep herself alive, to keep him fed. To keep him healthy, happy. She had tears streaming down her face as she fought against Wooyoung’s hold, struggling against the hands that quite literally held her life. She was a good mother, looking out for her son even when faced with death. Putting her son first, before herself. She didn’t deserve to die. 

_I’ll do anything_. 

“Please!” she wailed. “Please—I’m begging you!”

If he killed her, he'd be stripping a child of his mother, stripping her parents of their daughter, stripping someone of their best friend. He knew that that was like. He'd had everything in his life taken from him, right down to his humanity. He wouldn't wish it on anyone, but... 

Wooyoung had a chance to fix it.

The key to getting San back was right in front of him, just within reach. He would do anything to see that bright, dimpled smile again, to feel the warmth of San's hands, to feel the press of his lips against his own, and the gentle rise and fall of his chest as he slept. San kissed Wooyoung's wrists and told him he was glad that they met. San told Wooyoung he was beautiful, and Wooyoung felt more human than he ever had before. San cried for Wooyoung when he'd nearly bled to death on the basement floor, and he sacrificed his freedom in exchange for Wooyoung's life. His heart ached every moment that San was gone, the kind of pain like nothing he'd ever known. 

“You’ll do anything?” Wooyoung asked quietly.

“Y-yes! A-anything. I’ll do anything, so please—”

Wooyoung smiled. 

“Well, so will I.” 

He snapped her neck, and the crying stopped. 

Her body went limp, light as a ragdoll in his strong hands. Residual tears dripped down her face onto the floor, her hands falling down to her sides. The crack echoed in his ears, her bones weak and fragile like styrofoam, which served as a glaring reminder of just how inhuman he really was. Breaking bones, taking lives—that’s what he was made for. A walking, breathing, killing tool. A monster. 

If becoming a monster is what it took, then so be it. 

Wooyoung held the waitress's limp body by her hair, shifting his gaze to meet Zico’s. “Do you want her eyeballs, too?” 

She had loved ones she wanted to protect, but... so did Wooyoung. San’s life was more important than some trashy waitress’s, regardless of how good a mother she was. When Wooyoung said he would do _anything_ , he meant it. He would stop at nothing to free San, no price was too high. There was no going back now. There was no dipping his toes in—it was all or nothing. 

“Now _that’s_ what I’m talking about, Phony Fangs. Plenty of people are willing to sell their own soul for something. That just makes you a martyr—what’s impressive about that? See, I think selling your soul comes in steps, not all at once. It’s like a ladder, and its rungs are made of the bones of the people who get in your way. The more you kill, the higher you climb. Get it?”

Wooyoung was a hypocrite. Wooyoung nearly died because he _wasn’t_ willing to let N sacrifice innocent lives in pursuit of his ultimate goal—yet here he was, doing the exact same thing. He was a massive fucking hypocrite. He killed a girl for absolutely no reason at all, just to prove a point. She wasn’t even in his way, yet he killed her anyway. He really _was_ a monster, after all. 

The worst part? He didn’t even care.

Wooyoung felt nothing when he snapped her neck. It was like breaking a toothpick and tossing it aside. Cheap, disposable. It was funny, really. He always touted some nonsense about only killing when his reasoning was sound, like he was somehow better than his peers who slaughtered for fun. Where was his moral high ground now? Maybe N was right, revenge really was worth it. 

Disgusting. He was disgusting, and he didn’t even care. He didn’t have time to care—not when the man he loved was being tortured each day he waited. The longer he waited, the more San would suffer. Wooyoung needed Zico’s help, and if that meant snapping a few necks at Zico’s command—hell, he was the Wringer. He’d wring the neck of any damn pigeon Zico threw at his feet. Love really did make people crazy, after all.

“So, what do you say? You work for me, chipping away at that feisty little soul of yours, and I’ll help you get the kiddo back in return. Are you willing to climb that ladder?” Zico asked, finally sitting up from the couch. "And trust me—you'll grow to love it soon enough."

_Are you willing to climb that ladder?_

Hell, Wooyoung already had his foot on the first rung.

Instead of a response, Wooyoung plunged his fingers into the waitress's eye socket. He fished around inside with a nauseating squelch, yanking out her still-warm eye with an expressionless face. There was a snap as he severed the optic nerve, and he tossed the eye in front of Zico, who looked at it with a smile. It bounced once, leaving a wet streak as it rolled across the table. 

“Maybe you have a little more vampire in you than I thought, Fangs.”

Wooyoung cracked open a fifth of vodka and just started chugging. He would need it if he had any hope of sleeping. He didn’t even say anything to Yeosang when he came home— _home_ being the bunker, since he’d be dog food if he went back to the Ruby. Yeosang caught on immediately, Wooyoung’s strange behavior not going undetected by his best friend radar.

”Hey, dude. Straight for the Goose? That’s a bad sign.”

Wooyoung ignored him. The vodka slid down his throat with a warmth that brought him no comfort. He didn’t stop until the bottle was empty, and Yeosang had a concerned hand placed on his shoulder. Wooyoung let out a long breath, bringing the mouth of the bottle away from his lips. He just wanted this shit to kick in as fast as possible so he could sleep the day away in a comatose state.

”Hang on—what’s that?”

Yeosang lifted Wooyoung’s arm to get a better look. On the back of Wooyoung’s hand was a clown’s face, tattooed in black ink. Ink mixed with colloidal silver—a trade secret in tattooing vampires. Silver didn’t hurt hybrids, but under his skin it still stung like hell. Not that it had anything on what was going on inside his skull. Wooyoung shrugged him off, yanking his arm away, but Yeosang spun him around.

”What the hell have you gotten yourself into this time?” Yeosang pressed, dropping his usual sarcasm. The code for _you’re up shit creek without a paddle, aren’t you?_

”Deal,” Wooyoung slurred, vodka slowly working through his system. 

”Huh?”

Wooyoung gave a loopy grin. “A deal with the devil.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> what’s this?? 28 chapters now?? yeah so basically i put 25 up there as a rough estimate but the official length of this fic is gonna be 28 chapters—well more like 27 chapters plus the epilogue so woohoo!!! we’re getting close folks!! and srry for the delay, mama 2020 broke me. that, and i miiiight have a new woosan fic in the works…. oopsie
> 
> twitter & tumblr @ yungwooyoung
> 
> fic playlist that goes hard as fuck [here!!](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/5eGeySTdOkbL7GnwxifYW7?si=Srtv7kQNSbyvS_ZwvoA6hg)


	22. a taste of your own medicine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> PAUSE REAL QUICK. this gets dis.gust.ing. horrific. traumatic. i’m serious, if torture isn’t your gig then feel free to dip out after the smut scene. the next few chapters from san’s perspective are all very… yikes. 
> 
> i’m gonna be adding a few warnings to this fic from here on out:
> 
> torture (electric shock, water boarding, sleep deprivation, starvation, force feeding, denailing, leeches, burns, lashing, bone breaking, just general nastiness ok), attempted suicide, ptsd, psychosis, homophobic slurs, also bondage (lol one of these things is not like the other) and please let me know if I forget something, the last thing I want is for something iffy to go untagged!! shit is gonna get a lil bit dicey so I’m just getting all those warnings up. if you’ve come this far ur probably expecting all that shit anyway but juuuuuust to be safe. ps they do have a safeword it just wasn’t mentioned in this particular flashback aight just so we’re clear 
> 
> anyway lez geddit boiz. genuinely sorry about what the future holds so here's some apology smut

“Did you get it?”

San nodded and tossed Wooyoung the phone. It was a burner, specifically for the purpose of texting Wooyoung. San was a little ashamed at having stooped so low, going so far as to get a whole new phone with a prepaid minute package just to get some ass. No one with two phones was ever up to any good. As a cop, he would know. He’d shown up a few times when Wooyoung wasn’t home, though, and this was really the only way he could prevent that from happening. Well, there was the option of being a good upstanding citizen and not coming _at all_ , but San’s priorities were a little… catawampus. 

San looked over Wooyoung’s shoulder, watching him gracefully thumb over the screen. San had a weird fascination with Wooyoung’s fingers—they were just so sexy in a way that San couldn’t explain. Stockier than San’s, yet elegant and pretty. He often decorated them with silver rings that drew San’s eyes in, mesmerized by the way they moved. There was a lot about Wooyoung that was inexplicably sexy, like his sharp, pointed fangs, something that San should by all means hate, but one couldn’t really help what turned them on.

The thing that made Wooyoung his enemy was also the thing that drew San to him like a poor, stupid moth. Not only his fangs, but his whole mischievous, devilish aura, like he was some kind of evil sex demon come to take San’s soul away by means of draining it through his dick. He was just so damn hot—such a wildcard, yet sharp as a tack, totally unlike anyone San had ever met before. He had a goofy side to him, too, and a sense of humor that had San rolling on the floor on more than one occasion, even though San still wanted to punch him most of the time. 

It was pretty safe to say San was hooked. His dick belonged solely to Wooyoung, like it was suffering from some kind of confused Stockholm syndrome. San had every reason to arrest Wooyoung and throw him in Confinement, but his stupid cock wouldn’t let him. Was good sex a sound reason for disobeying orders and breaking the law? 

Yeah, apparently. 

San watched as Wooyoung punched the numbers of his new phone in. Then the name Wooyoung typed made San do a double take. 

“Hang on—what do you have my name saved as?”

Wooyoung snickered. 

“Does that say _Hot Fuzz?_ I swear to god,” San laughed, shaking his head. 

“What should mine be?”

“How about Toyota Prius?” San suggested.

“Wha—oh. _Ha-ha_ , very funny.” Wooyoung rolled his eyes, cracking a smile.

“I’m here all week.”

Wooyoung handed him the phone back, and San stuffed it in his jeans pocket. As soon as his hands were free, he slid them around Wooyoung’s back, dipping his fingers into the back of his pants. Wooyoung wrapped his arms behind San’s neck, pulling their bodies close.

“You _actually_ went out and got a burner just to text me. You must be the horniest cop I’ve ever met.” Wooyoung’s voice oozed smugness. 

“Maybe we’re all like this. Your sample size is pretty pathetic."

“Something tells me you’re not like the others.”

“Aw, you think I’m special?” San teased, pressing his lips into a cutesy pout. 

“I think you’re fucked up in the head.”

“I’ll show you _fucked up_ ,” San growled teasingly, sliding his hands down to squeeze Wooyoung’s ass through his pants. 

He sealed their lips together in a messy kiss, stumbling backward through the bedroom doorway until he felt the back of his thighs hit the mattress. Their relationship was more transactional than anything else. They had their banter, but most of the time San’s clothes were off before he was even through the entryway. Not that he was complaining—that’s just how he liked it. The less talking was involved, the more he could justify in his head that, y’know, maybe he wasn’t the _worst_ cop in the whole entire world. He had physical needs, and not only did Wooyoung meet them, he knocked them out of the damn park. 

Wooyoung grinned against his lips, dragging his hands down San’s chest and giving a soft push, making San fall against the bed with a bounce. Wooyoung climbed into his lap, his knees on either side of San’s hips, letting his hands wander wherever they pleased, fingertips brushing over San’s nipples with just enough pressure to earn a throaty sigh. Wooyoung seemed to be in the mood to toy with him, as evident by the fact that he hadn’t ripped San’s clothes off yet. Normally they were off in seconds, which was a little suspicious. Granted, he’d only been there like, two minutes, but still. 

“What’s that look for?” San asked when Wooyoung pulled back with a mischievous grin. 

“I can’t stop thinking about how much I want you in handcuffs,” Wooyoung purred impishly. 

“I’m the cop, shouldn’t I be handcuffing you?”

“Hm, that wouldn’t be very original. We should switch roles.”

“Am I supposed to drink your blood too?” San gave a vampish growl and delivered a playful bite to Wooyoung’s neck, making Wooyoung giggle and squirm against him.

“If you’re into that. I don’t mind.”

“I think I’ll pass,” San declined, crinkling his nose. 

“Do you have your cuffs with you?”

“I always have them. There’s no such thing as being truly off-duty.”

“Look at you, mister employee-of-the-month. What a role model.”

“Mm, sure am. I’m great at my job.”

“I can see that,” Wooyoung teased, slipping his hand into San’s jacket. His fingers found their way into the inside pocket, fishing out a pair of the carbon fiber restraints specially issued to members of the Ops. 

“Hey, you little thief. I never said you could have those.”

“Most people don’t _ask_ to be arrested,” Wooyoung grinned cheekily. “Let’s make it realistic.”

“You’re so annoying,” San laughed. 

“Clothes off, piggy.”

“ _Piggy?_ You’re such a dick. What do I call you—vampy? Fangy? Not fair, those don’t sound that bad.”

“You can call me whatever you want. I’ll make you _scream_ it.”

San rolled his eyes. “How ‘bout ‘asshole?’”

“Fine by me. Now strip.” Wooyoung twirled the cuffs around his finger, already feeling their power. 

  


  


San knelt on the bed, naked, giving his wrists an experimental tug. It’s not like he’d _never_ been in cuffs in a sexual situation before, but never with someone as mean as Wooyoung. Letting someone with a vendetta against cops cuff him might have been a… _bad_ idea, to say the least. Regardless, the vulnerability of it combined with Wooyoung’s hungry leer raking over him like he was a juicy piece of meat made his skin heat up and his pulse quicken. The smug smile never left Wooyoung’s face, all too happy with his handiwork. 

“How do you feel?” Wooyoung asked as he finished undressing. 

“Somewhat objectified,” San joked, and Wooyoung snorted and slapped him lightly on the shoulder. 

“I knew you’d look good like this, but damn, you look fucking _delicious_.” Wooyoung’s tongue poked out from between his teeth as he drank in the sight of San in restraints, hands bound behind his back, leaving him helplessly exposed to Wooyoung’s gaze. 

Wooyoung ran his hands along San’s torso, lightly trailing his fingers over the dips and rises of his abs, up over his ribs, across his chest and his collarbone. It made goosebumps rise along San’s skin, the touch gentle, but loaded with wicked intent. He shivered, and Wooyoung’s dark smile grew wider. It was in times like this that San was reminded of just how _dangerous_ Wooyoung could be, like he could kill San in a heartbeat if he so wished. Right now, San felt like he was only alive because Wooyoung wanted it that way, and _fuck_ that was hot. 

Wooyoung was right, San was _maybe_ a little messed up in the head. Just a little.

Wooyoung ran his hands down San’s chest in broad strokes, dragging one finger from each hand over San’s nipples, then back up, teasing them beneath the pads of his fingertips. San sucked in a breath, toes flexing at the jolt of arousal that shot down to his cock, and Wooyoung gave a soft laugh. He made circles with his fingers, using just enough pressure to have San fighting the urge to writhe under his touch. 

“If this is all it takes to make you squirm, you’re in for a _looong_ night, Ops.”

“I’ll be reporting this wrongful arrest to the bureau,” San quipped, hissing through his teeth at Wooyoung’s touch. 

“Aren’t you just adorable. Now, on your knees.” Wooyoung guided San off the bed with a hand at the nape of his neck, and San begrudgingly slid off and knelt onto the floor. 

Wooyoung placed a hand on top of San’s head as he stepped up to bat, lining up the head of his cock with San’s lips. He took in the sight of San on his knees for a few moments, like some kind of power hungry Emperor staring down his nose at a lowly peasant. The hand on the top of San’s head was gentle, but the look in Wooyoung’s eye was anything but. 

“An Ops in cuffs, down on his knees for me. All my friends would be jealous,” Wooyoung purred, stroking San’s hair in a way that felt condescending as hell. 

“Oh, you have friends?” San sneered. 

“Hmm, now I kinda wanna gag you, too, but I guess I’ll just have to use my cock.”

“You’re a little _too_ into this.”

“Can you blame me? Mm, you look so fucking _good_ like this, a big bad Ops agent sitting pretty for me like a good little slut,” Wooyoung cooed. 

“That’s no way to talk to an officer,” San scolded.

“Open.”

“Not a chance.” San kept his teeth shut. 

The hand on the top of San’s head grabbed a fistful of hair and yanked, forcing him to crane his neck back. 

“You want me to _make_ you? You know I will.”

San smirked up at him, playing the game just as hard. 

_“Open.”_

With his other hand, Wooyoung pinched San’s nose, making it a pain in the ass to breathe. A sharp tug at his scalp made him wince, and another made his teeth part with a grunt. His mouth fell open, and Wooyoung wasted no time shoving his cock in. San moaned around it, his scalp still stinging from the pull of Wooyoung’s hand. San screwed his eyes shut, struggling not to gag as Wooyoung’s cock hit the back of his throat. 

San could hardly breathe around the cock in his mouth, Wooyoung’s thumb and forefinger still pinching his nose shut out of spite. Wooyoung rolled his hips forward, letting his cock sink all the way in, giving a few slow, shallow thrusts. San choked pathetically around it, trying to suck air in as best he could each time Wooyoung pulled his hips back, but it was no easy feat. 

Tears prickled in the corners of San’s eyes as Wooyoung’s cock repeatedly slammed into the back of his throat, eventually spilling down his cheeks as it became too much. He gagged over and over again, eyebrows pinched into a pained frown as he struggled to breathe. Wooyoung let go of his nose, pulling out his cock to give San a second to recover. 

San gasped, a string of saliva stretching from his swollen lips to Wooyoung’s cock, hot cheeks streaked with tears. His arms were useless behind him, and he probably looked like the very picture of depravity—hell, he felt like it, too. Hair fucked up, panting, the whole nine yards. Wooyoung let go of his hair to thumb away the tears that trailed down San’s face. 

“Crying already? You’re not as tough as you look. Big bad policeman can’t handle a cock down his throat?” Wooyoung jeered. 

Something about the sight of San in handcuffs brought out Wooyoung’s ultra sadistic side. It made sense, though. San and Wooyoung were bitter enemies, on opposite sides of the law, and the idea of a cop surrendering to him gave Wooyoung an obvious power high. San had too much pride to submit completely, but he couldn’t deny how hard his cock got at the idea of his enemy using him like a toy to get off. He couldn’t deny it, but that didn’t mean he’d ever admit it aloud.

Wooyoung brought a hand to San’s face, brushing his thumb across San’s lower lip. “Look at me,” Wooyoung commanded lightly, tipping San’s chin up. “Fuck, so goddamn pretty.” He slipped his thumb past San’s lips, scraping over his bottom teeth until it came to rest on San’s tongue. San closed his lips around it, lust flashing in Wooyoung’s eyes as San gave it a teasing suck. He kept it in his mouth for a few seconds, making a show of swirling his tongue around it with a soft moan.

Then, San bit down, _hard_ , tasting blood on his tongue with a satisfied smirk. Wooyoung didn’t even flinch, he simply removed his finger from San’s mouth with a _pop_ and clenched his hand around San's throat, his thumb digging in just below the ramus of San’s jaw. San swallowed against the pressure, forced to look Wooyoung in the eye, and Wooyoung looked about ready to eat him alive. 

“That was cute. Do it again and see what happens.” 

Wooyoung grabbed San’s chin, slipping his bleeding thumb past San’s lips, pressing it against his tongue once more. San played along for a few seconds, softly licking up the drop of blood that collected just beneath the knuckle, closing his lips around Wooyoung's thumb and sucking once more. But San wasn’t really in the mood to take orders, and he was too stubborn to let Wooyoung do whatever the hell he wanted. They _were_ enemies, after all. It was San’s job to give him a hard time.

San bit down again, harder than the last time. Wooyoung hissed a sharp intake of air through his teeth, yanking his hand away from San’s mouth. San didn’t even have time to gloat. 

Wooyoung slapped him—hard. 

Stunned, San could only choke for air as Wooyoung wrapped his hand around San’s throat again, leaning in with a deadly smile. San’s cheek stung, prickling with heat from the impact, and his cock twitched between his legs, as if to say _do it again. More. Harder_. Not that San would ever, _ever_ admit he liked it. He wouldn’t give Wooyoung the satisfaction. However, San certainly didn’t mind provoking him, pushing Wooyoung’s buttons until he snapped. It didn't take much to piss Wooyoung off, and that's exactly what he was after.

“You’re fucking stupid. Do you really wanna piss off someone who could crush your skull with one hand?” Wooyoung snarled.

San’s lips pulled into a dark grin, breathless as Wooyoung choked him, meeting Wooyoung’s eyes with a challenging stare. 

_I just did_ , his smile said. 

The hand around his throat was achingly tight, cutting off his circulation until his pulse pounded in his ears and his eyes fluttered back into his head. San gasped weakly, Wooyoung’s gaze consuming him like a flame. Dark, heavy, _hungry_. San felt like an hors d'oeuvre on a plate waiting to be eaten, and honestly, he couldn’t wait. Just when San felt like bruises were going to form in the shape of Wooyoung’s fingers, the pressure subsided, and his lungs filled with a relieved breath of air. 

“You’re lucky you’re cute, I’ll say that much. Get up,” Wooyoung commanded, roughly pulling San up to the bed by the hair. 

San fell clumsily onto the bed, narrowly avoiding faceplanting right into the mattress, unable to catch himself with his hands cuffed behind his back. He pulled himself into a kneeling position, feeling the bed dip as Wooyoung climbed in behind him. Wooyoung pushed him over, forcing San into a humiliating face-down-ass-up position, practically as vulnerable and useless as possible, clearly what Wooyoung was going for. Wooyoung ran his hands along San’s ass, ghosting a finger over his entrance just lightly enough to make San shudder. 

“Someone’s enjoying his little power-trip,” San grumbled into the comforter, his face smushed into the layers of white linens. 

“Aw, are you mad to be the one wearing the cuffs?” Wooyoung pouted, laced with faux-sympathy. 

“You are _so_ gonna get it.”

“I’d watch what you say to me right now,” Wooyoung warned, trailing his fingers lightly over San’s ass, then delivering a hard slap, skin left stinging and hot. San flinched, a tiny grunt escaping his lips, not going undetected by Wooyoung’s superior hybrid ears. San’s cock betrayed him, shamelessly twitching between his legs. _Traitor._

“Don’t pretend you don’t love it, Ops,” Wooyoung continued, teasing his middle finger lightly over San’s entrance. “You like being at my mercy. Don’t even lie.”

“Yeah, right. Like hell.” San’s breath hitched the slightest bit at Wooyoung's touch.

“Without all your guns and your shiny little badge, what are you? Just a weak, pathetic human. I could kill you in the blink of an eye, yet you keep coming back for more. How shameful is that?” 

A shiver ran down San’s spine. That’s exactly what he liked, how taboo it was. Wooyoung was everything he shouldn’t want, a walking concoction of everything that San stood against, _fought_ against, yet he couldn’t stay away. Fucking around with Wooyoung was like playing Russian roulette—it could go wrong at any time, but the thrill made him squeeze the trigger just to see what would happen. The more he pulled the trigger, chambers coming up empty, empty, empty, the closer he teetered to the brink of total disaster. 

Wooyoung _could_ kill him, if he wanted to. The threat was always there, looming like a dark cloud in his subconscious. Wooyoung could decide to snap him like a twig someday, if he felt like it. On the flip side, that’s also what made fucking him so damn satisfying. Making Wooyoung cry out beneath him was just as thrilling as when he took control, drunk off the power that came with having a hybrid totally at his mercy. Someone easily twice his strength begging for his cock gave him some kind of high he couldn't explain. It was addictive either way, and San craved it like some kind of strung-out sex maniac. What a doozie. 

Wooyoung dipped his fingers back into San’s mouth, and this time San let him, slicking them in saliva with his wet, obedient tongue. He closed his mouth and sucked, meeting Wooyoung's amused stare. San was starting to go crazy with how bad he wanted it, and the urge to put up a fight was slowly draining the harder his cock grew. He wanted nothing more than to make Wooyoung’s life as difficult as possible, but then again, he also really wanted to get fucked. Pick your battles, as they say. 

Wooyoung held San’s jaw open, pressing down on his tongue with his fingers until drool started to spill from his lips. San screwed his eyes shut, his cheeks hot from the humiliation of it all, panting helplessly as saliva ran down his chin. 

“You really are a government _mutt_. Drooling all over the place. How humiliating, makes me wanna snap a picture and send it off to your colleagues. How would they react if they knew _this_ is how you spend your spare time, huh? How would they look at you?” Wooyoung purred with a vicious, shit-eating grin. 

They’d be utterly, utterly disgusted, and San loved it. 

Wooyoung pulled his hand back, stroking his wet fingers against San’s entrance, pressing one finger in ever so slowly. San had to suppress the whine that rose from his throat, finally getting a taste of what he wanted, but still not enough. He knew that look on Wooyoung’s face all too well—he wasn’t planning on making things easy. It was excruciating how slowly Wooyoung slid his finger in, drawing it out to be as torturous as possible. He needed more, and he knew he was going to have to work for it. 

“You should be ashamed of yourself, really. What kind of cop bends over for a _hybrid?_ Honestly, San, it’s pretty pathetic. You’re not a cop. You’re just a filthy, disgusting slut.”

If someone had come up to San just mere weeks ago and told him that his cock would be dripping in response to a hybrid calling him a slut, he would have punched them straight in the face. Normally, if someone were to call San pathetic, he’d knock their teeth out without even batting an eye. Somehow, not only could Wooyoung get away with it, but he had the power to make San crave more, which was frankly terrifying. Wooyoung could probably tell him to eat dirt and he’d still be rock hard. 

As Wooyoung let fly his degrading comments, he started slowly pumping his finger, teasing San with just enough stimulation to make him groan in frustration. That was Wooyoung’s specialty, being a frustrating little shit. 

“Aren’t you?” Wooyoung urged with a grin. He upped the pressure, dragging the pad of his finger just hard enough to elicit a reaction. 

“Mm,” San whined petulantly. 

“What?”

“Fuck— _ah_ ,” San groaned, his skin heating up like he was running a fever. 

“What was that? I should stop?”

“I hate you.”

“If you hate me, why do you want my cock so bad?”

“Ugh.”

San didn’t have a valid argument. 

Wooyoung added another finger, slowly easing back in. San let out a shaky breath, sweat beading on his hairline as he struggled to retain his composure. By this point, Wooyoung knew San’s body from the inside out—literally—and he knew what made him tick. It wasn’t long before he had San writhing and panting with his face shoved against the sheets, moaning with his ass in the air like a bona fide whore. 

“Face it, you’re an embarrassment to the Ops. All too willing to bend over for me. Right, _officer?”_

“Ugh— _fuck_ , god—” 

With the hand that wasn’t buried in San’s ass, Wooyoung grabbed him by the hair, peeling his face off the bed and bringing him to a kneel. San could feel Wooyoung’s lips against his neck, puffs of hot breath on his skin sending a shiver down his spine. San’s head was craned at a painful angle, his back in a deep arch, Wooyoung’s fingers clenched in his hair to lock him in place. Wooyoung licked along the back of San’s neck, then down along his shoulder, teasing his fangs lightly across his skin. 

San was sweltering hot, Wooyoung’s fingers bringing him closer and closer to the edge, his cock aching to be touched. He struggled instinctively against the restraints, desperate and impatient, but it was futile. Each breath turned into a needy moan as it left his mouth, panting through parted lips as Wooyoung’s fingers quickened inside of him. 

“Close?” Wooyoung asked innocently. 

“ _Hah—fuck—_ ”

His body tensed as it readied for orgasm, but instead what followed was a horrible, disappointing emptiness. Wooyoung placed a deceptively sweet kiss along the curve of San’s shoulder as he pulled his fingers away, and San could feel the way his lips curled up into a smirk. San was left sweaty, breathless, and downright unsatisfied after being jipped out of his orgasm, but he was mostly just mad at himself for expecting any different. 

“What—the fuck,” San panted. 

“Is there a problem, _officer?”_ Wooyoung teased. 

“You’re so—fucking—annoying.”

“Well, what are you gonna do about it?” Wooyoung trailed his fangs up San’s neck, silently mocking his pathetic state. “I can tease you _all night_ if I want to.” 

At _all night_ , Wooyoung gave San’s cock one slow, agonizing stroke. San gasped, followed by a throaty, frustrated moan. San’s head fell back, resting on Wooyoung’s shoulder, and Wooyoung laughed at his distress. San’s hair was plastered to his forehead with sweat, his shoulders sore from the uncomfortable position of his arms, and his cock was hard enough to cut diamonds. He was an all around mess. 

Wooyoung shoved his fingers back into San’s mouth, quickly wetting them against his tongue. San didn’t even have time to complain about how gross that was before he felt them pressing into his ass again, moaning weakly at the sensation of Wooyoung’s fingers filling him up. It wasn’t Wooyoung’s stupid _fingers_ he really wanted, and knowing Wooyoung wasn’t going to let him cum just made it that much worse. 

“ _Ah_ , jesus fuck,” San gritted. If there was such a thing as painfully horny, this would be it. No, scratch that—it was definitely a thing. That’s exactly what San was feeling. 

“Aw, poor thing, do you want me to fuck you?” Wooyoung cooed condescendingly. 

“Like, yesterday— _fuck_ , Wooyoung!” San cried. 

“Try asking nicely.”

“Fuck—me— _now._ ”

“I don’t take orders from pigs,” Wooyoung sneered, clenching his hand around San’s throat. 

“Ah, _ahfuckfuck_ ,” San panted, Wooyoung’s fingers relentless in their mission to unravel San as quickly as possible. “Fuck—Wooyoung, I can’t—” he whined. 

“What do you want?” Wooyoung purred in his ear, fingers tightening around San’s throat. 

“Please, I can’t— _ah, god! Please_ , Wooyoung!” San choked out. 

San was a wreck, and Wooyoung was eating it up. That jerk. He had San crying out with each thrust of his fingers, and San was so wound up from Wooyoung edging him that he was barely coherent anymore. What came out of his mouth was a garbled mess of _ah fucks_ and Wooyoung’s name, and he was _so fucking close_ he could practically taste it, but Wooyoung wasn’t gonna let him get off that easy. 

Right when San was on the brink of orgasm, Wooyoung’s fingers slid out, the sensation replaced by that of two sharp fangs sinking into the meat of his shoulder, right along the curve where it met his neck. The searing heat as they punctured San’s skin made him cry out through clenched teeth, Wooyoung’s nails raking down the other side of his neck as he drank. Wooyoung’s tongue swiped across the wounds, moaning in satisfaction as he lapped up the blood that oozed out. 

“Damn it,” San panted, frustrated. He gave a hiss at the painful sting of Wooyoung’s fangs buried in his skin. 

Wooyoung stopped before San could cum, _again,_ and by this point San was wound up tighter than a bowstring, his cock dripping with the excruciating need to be touched. 

_“Mm, _fuck _,” Wooyoung hummed, satisfied. He sealed his lips around the bite to catch every drop of blood, sucking hard on the wound, his tongue dragging wet streaks across San’s skin. “Open,” he commanded, yanking San’s head by his hair until it was all the way tipped back.___

San obeyed, opening his lips, expecting to feel Wooyoung’s fingers press against his tongue.

San was _not_ prepared for Wooyoung to lean over and spit a mouthful of blood right into his mouth. San's eyes shot open, wincing at the harsh, metallic taste dribbling viscously from Wooyoung’s tongue straight onto his. Wooyoung had spit in his mouth before, and vice versa, but this was a little... different. Dirtier. It was so filthy San felt like he needed to go straight to confessional to cleanse his sins. It was disgusting as hell, so, naturally, San stuck his tongue out to collect it all like a depraved little slut. Why the hell not?

San didn’t break eye contact, letting the blood fill his mouth, drinking it up like he was thirsty for it. It coated his tongue and spilled down his lips, and San moaned as he felt the tip of Wooyoung's tongue pressing against his. Wooyoung gave a dark smile, tongue hanging lewdly from his mouth, the very picture of sin. San drank it up without a scrap of shame, too far gone to do anything but submit to Wooyoung’s lecherous desires. Blood trickled down San’s chin, which Wooyoung roughly smeared across his face with ring-adorned fingers. 

“Swallow,” Wooyoung commanded, voice low and rough.

San obeyed, swallowing his blood with a shiver, feeling utterly morbid as it slid down his throat. He felt half mad with arousal, his cock torturously hard and dripping with need. San felt like nothing more than a human fuck toy for Wooyoung to play with, an idea he was more than fine with. He _wanted_ Wooyoung to use him, to fuck him until he couldn’t remember his own damn name. He needed it so fucking bad, but that’s exactly what Wooyoung wanted to hear.

“How does it taste, huh? You wanted to be the hybrid, right?” Wooyoung sneered, licking stains of red from his lips with a dark smile.

“Wooyoung, _please_ ,” San begged. He was giving Wooyoung exactly what he wanted, but he was too desperate to care.

Wooyoung dragged his tongue against San’s, initiating an absolutely filthy kiss that left San more breathless than he already was. It was the kind of kiss that would make a porn star blush—raw, hungry, dripping wet with blood and saliva, tongues scraping teeth and fangs like they were trying to eat each other alive. Everything about it was devoid of purity, especially after Wooyoung had just made San drink his own blood. San whined into Wooyoung’s mouth, shamelessly grinding his ass against Wooyoung’s cock. He couldn’t take it anymore—he was way past the point of caring how needy he looked. 

“God, you’re pathetic. A cop begging for a hybrid’s cock, so—fucking— _pathetic_ ,” Wooyoung breathed against San’s neck, teasing a hand along his thigh, stopping just before he reached San’s achingly hard cock. San writhed at the touch, keening miserably.

“I can’t take it anymore,” San panted. “ _Please_ , Wooyoung, I— _ah!”_

Wooyoung teased the head of San’s cock with his thumb, making San’s hips twitch forward beyond his control. San’s chest heaved with every breath, pulse hammering, his body burning with the need to be touched.

“You sound _so_ good when you’re desperate. I could listen to you beg all night.” Wooyoung wrapped a hand lightly around San’s cock, giving it a few tender strokes that only gave the smallest taste of what San really needed.

“F-fuck, Wooyoung— _ah, god_ —” San hissed through his teeth, squirming in Wooyoung’s hold. His wrists felt raw from where the restraints cut into his skin, likely bruising from how hard he was tugging on them. 

“You must feel so weak right about now. I could do _whatever_ I want with you, and you’d like it, wouldn’t you?” Wooyoung purred against the shell of his ear, brushing his fingers over San’s nipples. 

Wooyoung was the fucking devil, and he knew it.

“ _Wooyoung—_ ” San whimpered. “Please, please, _please_ —

“Yeah, just like that, I love hearing you beg. You look like such a mess, Special Ops. God, I’m gonna fuck you _stupid_.” 

At the final word, Wooyoung pushed San over, shoving his face into the bed, and San barely had time to register the wet sound of lube against skin before he felt Wooyoung’s cock press up against his entrance, immediately slipping inside and bottoming out in one fluid motion. San sank his teeth into the bedding, using it to muffle his cries as Wooyoung pushed all the way inside, his cock so deep from the harsh curve of San’s spine that it felt like he was practically splitting in half.

Wooyoung gave a throaty groan as San’s ass clenched around his cock, fingers holding San’s waist in a bruising grip, digging marks into his sweat-slicked skin. Wooyoung cocked his hips back and delivered a quick thrust, pulling a high, whiny yelp from San’s throat. San had nothing to hold onto, his hands clenching into tight fists behind his back as Wooyoung began thrusting into him, setting an immediate hard pace that San so desperately needed.

San barely had time to gasp for breath in between thrusts, the wind knocked right out of his lungs everytime Wooyoung’s hips slammed forward, bouncing against San’s ass with lewd _slap slap slaps_. The duvet was wet beneath his cheek, soaked with his own drool from not being able to keep his mouth shut.

“Ah— _fuck—fuck_ —” San cried, his voice muffled against the bed as Wooyoung shoved his face down, fucking him like he was single handedly dismantling the government by doing so. He was truly _having his way_ with the government.

How… symbolic. The cuffs really _did_ something for Wooyoung, that’s for sure.

“ _Fuck_ , yeah, you like getting fucked by hybrids, don’t you? You like being used like a little whore?” Wooyoung snarled, keeping an insane rhythm that had San practically screaming.

San _did_ like it, way more than he’d care to admit. He liked the danger and disobediance that came with fucking Wooyoung, like taking a bite of the forbidden fruit. No—Wooyoung wasn’t the fruit. He was the snake, the one seducing him over to the dark side, tempting him with pleasures he could never have as a cop, twisting his mind into craving more, more, _more._

“Oh god—Wooyoung, _fuck_ ,” San sobbed, heat licking at every inch of his skin like the room had become a sauna.

“Louder,” Wooyoung growled, yanking at the roots of San’s hair. “Wanna hear you _scream_ it.”

Wooyoung pounded into San, driving his cock as deep as it could possibly go, fucking him into a new area code as San cried out helplessly beneath him. San could feel his cock twitch with every rough thrust, harder than fucking diamond from repeatedly being denied an orgasm. He could feel himself getting close again, and he hoped to god that Wooyoung would let him cum this time.

“Fuck—Wooyoung!” San cried, loud enough to be thankful that they weren’t at his apartment with neighbors to hear him. That would be next-level embarrassing, since they knew him as a sweet, helpful policeman, not some filthy cockslut, even though he technically was.

“ _Fuck_ , yeah, just like that,” Wooyoung gritted through his teeth, groaning deep in his throat as his thrusts became relentless.

San was a blubbering mess against the bed, his face smashed into a puddle of drool, his hair plastered to his forehead with sweat, his heart throbbing in his ears over the sound of Wooyoung’s hips slamming against his ass. He was so damn close, his moans growing louder as they escaped his throat in desperate sobs, his wrists digging against the restraints behind his back as he clenched his hands into involuntary fists.

“Please, please, I— _ah!”_

“What do you want? Tell me,” Wooyoung spat, digging his nails into San’s waist. 

“Please,” San sobbed. “Please let me cum, _please_."

“Yeah? You wanna cum?”

San was practically crying from how bad he needed it. He didn’t know what he’d do if Wooyoung denied him again—probably lose his fucking mind. Wooyoung was on an evil, sadistic power trip, and San wouldn’t put it past him to do it again. San would have a full-on mental breakdown, that’s for sure.

“Please, please, please, _please_ —ah, _fuck_ —” 

Wooyoung wrapped a hand around San’s neglected cock, giving a few quick pumps in his fist, and that’s all it took to send San over the edge, cursing loudly as he came all over the duvet in hot, messy spurts. He came hard enough to make up for the times Wooyoung had edged him, like he had ejaculated every drop of life force left in his body. He collapsed against the sheets like a dead weight, soaked in sweat and smeared with blood, panting like a marathon runner. 

Wooyoung’s hips stilled after a few more seconds of merciless thrusting, cursing out a deep, breathy groan as he came inside San, who was a glorified zombie at that point. Wooyoung was panting heavily too, bringing a hand up to wipe at a drop of blood that trickled its way down San’s shoulder. San often wondered what the housekeepers must think of the constant supply of bloodstained sheets, but he knew they got paid enough not to ask any questions. Wooyoung gave San's ass a light slap as he caught his breath, sucking away the drop of blood he'd collected with his thumb. 

Wooyoung pulled his dick out, and San fell uselessly against the bed, narrowly missing the streaks of cum that had painted the duvet. San’s limbs felt like they were no longer attached to his body, like he was some kind of naked, erotic Mr. Potato Head. His eyes immediately glued themselves shut, exhaustion hitting his brain like a tall shot of Nyquil. The bed shook as Wooyoung scooted off, hopefully in search of a clean towel and possibly a bottle of water. For as big a prick he was in bed, Wooyoung was always oddly nice about helping San clean up when he was too spent to move.

“I am so paying you back for this,” San grumbled into the bed. “Get me out of these things.”

Now that he wasn’t focused on anything else, his arms were really starting to ache, and his wrists would definitely have some tell-tale BDSM bruises the next day. He’d have to wear long sleeves to work for the next few days if he didn’t want to get shit from his coworkers. He could practically already hear the annoying comments of _ooh, San, I didn’t know you were into that_ ringing prophetically in his head. Little did they know, handcuffs were only the tip of the iceberg. Yeah, definitely a long sleeved shirt kind of week.

“I was just giving you a taste of your own medicine. How’d it taste, hm?” 

____

_A taste of your own medicine_.

If only he’d known how it would _really_ taste.

“Again.”

San gasped for breath as frigid water splashed across his face, forcing him to stay awake as his consciousness began to flicker out. Thick straps secured his trembling limbs against the arms of the restraint chair, digging into his skin the more he thrashed and writhed. San choked, chest heaving with desperate, uneven breath, his remaining fingernails cracked and broken from digging against metal. Many had been ripped off already, the tips of his fingers caked in dried blood where they used to be. His heartbeat throbbed in his ears, thrumming rapidly over the sound of the machine readying. 

San let his head hang forward, sweat and water running into his eyes from his drenched hair, saliva falling from his lips into his lap. The taste of blood filled his mouth from the punctures on his tongue where he’d bitten it, his jaw aching under the pressure of having it clenched. The benign _beep_ of the machine had quickly turned sinister, announcing another wave of agony in the form of an electric current. 

San was in hell. 

Every second, every minute, every hour.

A week had passed since his arrest, denied a trial and sent straight to solitary. At least, a week was his closest guess. He had no windows in his cell, no internal clock, no scheduled meals to help determine how much time had passed. His meals were few and far between, and what little food he got had to be forced down his throat when he refused to eat. That’s exactly what they wanted, to strip San of all sense of time and rhythm, in constant dread of the guards dragging him from his cell. To weaken his mind and body, priming him to break, pushing him to the limit until he cracked. 

They wanted San to spill everything he knew. Wooyoung’s name, who and where he was, who the other hybrid was, how they met, how long they worked together, how many other hybrids he was fucking, how many hybrids he knew, where they hid, who else the hybrids knew, who they sold to, where they got the sol, if they made it in the lab, who set the lab on fire and why, why San killed Agent Byun, and where, since his body had been discovered in a junkyard across town, probably thanks to Black Dragon's clean up crew. 

San’s lips were sealed. 

Bloodied water swirled around the drain at his feet, clean white tiles smeared with red. San’s feet stung where several of his toenails had been ripped off, toes throbbing where they’d been stomped on, tarsal bones crunched under heavy boots. The floor of the Box was always a mess by the time he was wheeled out, spattered with blood and vomit like a morbid painting, his suffering on display for all to see before it was rinsed clean. Then, just like new, the tiles would be white again the next day. 

_The Box._

Videos of interrogations only showed what was on the inside. The interrogators, the prisoner. What they didn’t show were the spectators, standing around the glass walls of the Box in darkened corridors, plastic masks hiding their identities. San was like a zoo animal, there for the sole purpose of providing them with entertainment. Politicians, CEOs, government officials, psychos with enough money to buy their way into the show. It made San sick, dozens of pairs of eyes drinking in his pain underneath blank, expressionless masks. He felt each and every one of their gazes like spiders crawling underneath his skin.

Was Yunho there? Watching, smiling behind the safety of a mask? Was he proud of himself for reducing San to a screaming, writhing mess, a bloodstain against tile? 

San imagined each and every one of those masks to be hiding Yunho’s face. Dozens of Yunhos that watched him from all angles, front row seats to witness the fruits of his handiwork. Dozens of that _fucking traitor_ Jeong Yunho all around him. San wanted to kill each and every one of them with his bare hands, until it was _his_ blood they’d be rinsing down the drain. 

If San ever got his hands on Yunho, he’d be nothing more than a painting on the floor. 

San had more than enough time to fantasize about the many ways in which he’d love to tear Jeong Yunho apart. In fact, it was _all_ he thought about. The only thing that brought him comfort was imagining how warm Yunho’s blood would be as it dripped along his fingers, how sweet his screams of agony would sound as San ripped him limb from limb, how pretty those big eyes of his would look full of fear and desperation, and how much prettier they’d look when the light left them. 

San had _plenty_ of time to fantasize. 

His daily agenda was a little something like this:

Wake up in solitary, get dragged out kicking and screaming by the guards, get tased and beaten until they subdued him enough to get him strapped into the transport chair, get wheeled down to the Box, get transferred to the restraint chair bolted to the floor. He then had nothing but hours of grueling torture to look forward to, until he was eventually thrown back into his cramped cell for a few hours of cold, nightmare-filled sleep before the process began all over again. Some of his days featured the guards holding him down and cramming food down his throat to keep him from starving to death after San refused to eat on his own. 

Electricity was the preferred method by the Confinement interrogators, favored for its effectiveness in delivering intense pain without substantial bodily injury. San was young and healthy, so it wasn’t likely that his heart would give out anytime soon. Unfortunately. 

San _wished_ his heart would give out. At least then he’d be able to escape the agony. He craved death like never before, a way out of this god forsaken place. 

No, execution was saved for those who had purged every last drop, spilling all the knowledge they had from their broken, bloodied mouths. Only then would they bestow the gift of death onto a prisoner. Execution wasn’t a threat, it was a prize. Death was something to be desired, coveted—the only way to escape Confinement, and never before had it sounded so sweet. 

Waterboarding was another favorite method. They’d tip the chair back, lights searing into San’s eyes like a dental visit, then a cloth would cover his face for a brief moment of welcome darkness before an icy stream of water spilled from the hose and soaked the cloth, suctioning around his nose and mouth as he fought for breath in desperate, futile gasps. The feeling of drowning over and over again, just to be brought back at the brink of death, coughing up water until his lungs were raw. 

Sometimes the methods tipped the scales toward barbaric. Medieval. They ripped his fingernails off, peeling slowly, _ever_ so slowly, so that San felt every tear as the nail left his skin. Toenails too, and after they ripped those off, they stomped on his feet with their shoes, grinding the rough soles of their boots into the bleeding, stinging wounds where his toenails had once been. Sometimes they'd hold a soldering iron to his skin until he could smell his own flesh burn. They'd use pliers to snap through the bones in his fingers and toes, cracking and splitting like crab legs at a seafood restaurant. 

It’s not like he needed his hands for anything, anyway. Or his toes, for that matter. He didn’t walk, he was dragged. He spent most of his time in restraints. They could cut them off for all he cared. Not that they would—they tried to keep the injury to a minimum, as defined by their standards at least. Starvation, sleep deprivation and stress took a huge toll on the immune system, and they didn’t want to risk losing their prisoners to infection before they finished milking them for intel. That meant serious, fatal injury wasn’t permitted—however, that didn’t stop them from beating him to a pulp, breaking his bones, and lashing at his flesh until he looked like a human tic-tac-toe board.

The torture didn’t end when he left the Box, either. The beatings, the force-feedings, the insults, the humiliating trips to the shower where he was stripped of his clothes and hosed down with freezing water while the guards mocked and berated him. Sleep was the only thing he looked forward to, and his nightmares weren't much better than reality, like it wasn’t enough to only be tortured while awake. Every moment of his life was hell, no breaks, no escape. 

_Beep_.

Oh, god—

Fire licked at every nerve in his body as the collar around his neck triggered another shock. A hoarse scream ripped from his throat, raw and stinging, convulsing against the straps that held him down. The current ran beneath his skin, his blood like hot oil in his veins, frying him from the inside out. He screamed in agony, unable to escape, thrashing futilely as he begged the pain to subside. Each shock felt like an eternity, the waves of electricity consuming him mercilessly, never-ending. Only when he was practically foaming at the mouth did they shut it off, leaving him shaking and hyperventilating like an abused dog thrown out in the cold. 

But it was never over, not really. 

They shocked him over and over again, trying to break his will and get him to talk. San wondered what the betting pool back at HQ was like. How much money were they betting on him? How long did his colleagues think he would last before giving in? Before his mind came unraveled? Before he vomited up every last thing he knew about the hybrids, crying and begging pathetically for death, cowardice on display for all to see? 

The answer—never. 

San refused. He wouldn’t say a word.

“You’re making things awfully hard on yourself, Choi San,” the interrogator said.

San spat on the floor. 

“We’re going to find your little hybrid friend regardless. You could avoid all of this, you know. You’re putting yourself through all of this suffering for nothing. And when we do find him, you’ll wish you’d told us everything from the start. Whatever you’re feeling right now, he’s gonna feel twice as hard. We’ll make sure of that,” the masked interrogator said, forcing San’s chin up to look at him. 

Mind games. Alternating between negotiation and threats between rounds of electric shock. Empty bargains with no intention of following through. San knew it all. 

“Fuck—you—” San snarled, spit dribbling from his lips as he heaved for breath. 

The interrogator landed a harsh blow to San’s face, splitting his lip against his fist. San could feel it swell, leaking blood into his mouth, coating his teeth with a slick coat of red. 

“You think you’re some kind of knight?” the interrogator hissed, crowding into San’s personal space. “You don’t care what happens to you, as long as you get to protect your disgusting little bloodsucker?”

Provocation, insults; the usual formula. A recipe of sorts. It would take more than that to crack him. 

“You’re the biggest disgrace this force has ever seen, you know. Being a faggot wasn’t enough for you? Not _sick_ enough? You need hybrid cock to get it up?” He cupped San’s chin, giving it a rough shake.

“You’re not supposed to be— _hah_ —complimenting me,” San panted hoarsely, trying to give a coy smile, but all he could manage was a painful grimace. 

“You probably get off on this shit too. Yeah, do you? Want me to shock you again, you nasty fuck?”

_Oh, please do. I love it, I get off on it._

Or so San wanted to retort, but he didn’t even have it in him to lift his head, let alone spit out sarcastic remarks. It was clear his attempts at defiance had gotten weaker, beaten down to the point of near submission. He wouldn’t talk, but he also couldn’t fight back. 

San was exhausted. He was drained, mentally and physically, intermittent dousings with ice water the only thing keeping him from passing out. His voice was hoarse, his body ached and sweat dripped down his skin, soaking his clothes until they clung to his body like a wetsuit. Every inch of his skin stung, like it had been flensed from his bones and slapped back on with a staple gun. His remaining fingernails bled, split into jagged edges from clawing at the arms of the chair like a drowning cat. 

“Yeah, I bet you do. I’ll give you a big one, how ‘bout that? See how much you like it.” 

The interrogator touched a button on the screen, and San’s collar beeped as it readied for another shock. Searing pain erupted from San’s neck, bolts of lightning crackling through his limbs as it activated. A surge of electricity ripped through his body, his scream of raw agony echoing against the glass walls of the Box. San seized against the chair, muscles contracting in agonizing spasms, every fiber wrung like a towel beneath his skin. 

San couldn’t breathe.

 _Make it stop._

_Make it stop make it stop make it stop_. 

“What’s his name?” the interrogator barked, the sound of his voice barely reaching San’s ears over the sound of his own screams. “What’s his name, huh? The Bonnie to your Clyde? Or _he’s_ Clyde and you’re Bonnie, yeah? Is this how you scream when he fucks you? Come on, Choi. You know what to do if you want me to stop. We’ll start with a name and go from there, real easy.”

San _did_ want it to stop. Desperately. Every second was unbearable, suffocating, like being choked with a live wire while forced to swallow glass, his throat ripped to shreds from hours of screaming, day after day. Even his worst nightmares couldn’t fathom the type of misery he’d been forced to endure. There was no way to describe it other than complete and utter hell. 

San was in hell, but he wouldn’t give in. 

His only solace lied in the fact that Wooyoung was safe, and San would do everything in his power to keep it that way. Wooyoung wasn’t the one in the chair, he was free, and that’s all that mattered. They could electrocute him, drown him, rip him to shreds, and San still wouldn’t talk. He wouldn’t let all of this be for nothing. He _couldn’t._

No, no no no—

His eyes rolled back into his head as he convulsed, bloodied spit oozing down his chin and dripping onto his lap. 

_Stop stop stop stop stop_ —

His own scream was deafening, every cell in his body crying out for mercy. 

_Kill me. Kill me kill me kill me kill me kill me—_

San’s body stopped convulsing, the electricity halting as the interrogator paused the machine. The current stopped, and San gasped for breath, trembling and hyperventilating against the chair. Tears and saliva spilled down his face, his hair drenched with sweat that poured down the back of his neck, every inch of his skin on fire like he’d been beaten with a hot iron. Footsteps tapped against the tile behind him, and the interrogator waved someone in. 

“Time to switch already, huh?” the interrogator said, snapping off his rubber gloves and flinging them into a trash can in the corner. 

A new interrogator stepped in front of San. He couldn’t lift his head, but he knew it was a different guy based on his shoes. They were clean, not wet or smeared with streaks of blood. Not _yet_ , at least. What method would this guy prefer? Lashing, waterboarding, more electricity? Each interrogator was different, with a unique approach on how to inflict pain.

“Hello again, San.” 

The voice was new. San could sometimes tell them apart from their voices, since they wore masks to hide their faces. It wasn’t someone who had interrogated him before, but the voice sounded… familiar. 

The original interrogator left, the glass door swinging shut behind him with a bang that echoed against the walls of the Box. The new guy crouched down in front of San, who was still shaking and gasping for breath. San didn’t even look at him. He didn’t care who he was or what he planned on doing. He could barely even keep his eyes open, exhaustion consuming his aching body like his limbs were full of sand. 

“You look like shit. I almost didn’t even recognize you.”

That voice… it was so familiar, but San’s brain was too fried to place it. Who the hell—

The interrogator slipped off his mask, revealing the face of someone San hadn’t expected to see in a million years. 

“... Jongho?” San croaked, tilting his head up as much as he could manage. 

What the hell was Jongho doing here? 

A tiny glimmer of hope settled in his chest at the idea that _maybe Jongho was here to save him_. Had he snuck in, pretending to be an interrogator to break San out? Jongho was one of his closest friends, after all. He had a special place in San’s heart for being like a little brother, someone he’d watched grow into a strong, capable agent through force of will and determination. San always had a lot of respect for him, and the idea of him defying orders to free San from the Box made his heart swell with joy. 

“Bet you’re surprised to see me, huh?” Jongho gave a tight smile, his expression one that San didn’t recognize. His eyes raked over San’s battered form, hissing with empathy when his gaze settled on his missing fingernails, the tips of his fingers bruised and caked in dried blood. “That looks like it hurts.”

“You think?” San retorted weakly, barely able to speak, his throat shredded raw. “Get me out of here.”

Jongho laughed. “Get you out? You think that’s why I came here?”

… What?

“Huh?” San’s eyes widened in confusion. 

“You know, at first I hated seeing you like this, but… you’re not San. I don’t know who you are, or where he went, but you sure as hell aren’t the person I looked up to. When Yunho dragged you out of that hotel, I thought, ‘this has to be some kind of mistake.’ I couldn’t believe that you’d be involved with something like that. I didn’t _want_ to believe it.”

Jongho’s eyes were sad, but within them glimmered something else, something uncharacteristically cold. It made San’s heart sink, and his small flame of hope was quickly being smothered like one would stamp out the embers of a cigarette butt. 

“But when you smiled and said you’d killed Agent Byun… it broke my heart, San. You were there at his funeral, getting drunk and having a blast, when you were the one who _killed_ him. I couldn’t believe it. You really must be some kind of psychopath.”

 _Psychopath?_ For falling in love with someone he shouldn't have? And San sure as hell wasn’t _having a blast_ at Byun’s funeral, but it probably seemed that way when he’d danced in the fountain while drunk off his ass. That night had been one of the worst of his whole life, after Yunho had confessed his feelings, leaving San feeling utterly trapped and deranged for wanting to quit the force and run away with Wooyoung. San _was_ deranged, in everyone else’s mind, at least. Traitor, murderer, hybrid-fucker, disgrace. Psychopath, too, apparently. 

Jongho sighed. “I looked up to you, you know. You always cheered me on, encouraged me when things got rough. You were like an older brother to me. You joined the force so young, but you became one of our best despite being looked down on for your age. You had the respect of all our seniors, and I wanted that, too. You inspired me to work my ass off to get to where I am now.”

Jongho looked so genuinely sad that San's heart gave a small squeeze.

It was true, San had bent over backwards trying to prove himself when he’d first joined the Ops. He was young, inexperienced, as his seniors had brushed him off as just another greenhorn who wouldn’t last a month out in the field. Not only did he prove them wrong, he exceeded all expectations and gained the respect of the entire division with his lion-hearted courage and knack for combat. He knew there were cracks in the system, but he turned a blind eye for far too long in favor of climbing the ranks. 

San would have been a legend if he’d turned in Wooyoung, single-handedly exposing the Ruby as a front for an illegal sol operation _and_ revealing the existence of V2? He would have been hailed as the greatest agent of his time, shooting right up the ranks with unprecedented speed, shattering records and making history thanks to his age. He could have lived comfortably, sitting on piles of money with all the promotions thrown at his feet, not strapped to a chair and forcibly shocked. 

He didn’t want piles of money, or renown for his actions. He didn’t want the respect of people who treated hybrids like rats. He didn’t want a fancy new uniform with a shiny platinum badge and his own office with his name engraved on a plaque outside the door. He could have had all of that, at the price of handing Wooyoung over. It would have been easy, too. Wooyoung trusted him—all San had to do was catch him off guard, throw some cuffs on him during sex and knock him out. There were hundreds of moments where San could have done it, but he didn’t. Just like how Wooyoung had hundreds of moments to kill San, but he never did it. 

San never wanted to. He didn’t want a promotion. He wanted Wooyoung. 

Now he was paying the price for his betrayal, and San didn't have a single regret. He’d still make the choice to save Wooyoung’s life, even if he could go back in time. Even if it meant people he once thought of as family would look at him like he was dog shit on the bottom of their shoe, like Jongho was doing now. 

“Jongho—” San croaked. 

The expression that painted Jongho’s face was like nothing San had ever seen before. He grabbed San by the hair and yanked his head up to eye-level, all traces of his sweet, innocent little brother Jongho gone from existence. Instead, the person who faced him was cold, cynical, ruthless, just like all of San’s interrogators had been. 

“The only thing I want to hear from your mouth is that hybrid’s name and where I can find him,” Jongho said icily, staring straight into San’s eyes. 

Was this… really Jongho? 

“You can’t be serious,” San rasped, in complete disbelief. 

Jongho let go of San’s hair, stepping aside to drag a plastic bucket across the floor next to San’s feet. This was new—San had never seen an interrogator bring one before. He had a bad, bad feeling about what was inside. 

“Is that what you think?” Jongho smiled, snapping a pair of blue rubber gloves onto his hands. “Last chance, San. Are you going to tell me what you know, or not?”

Traitors. Every last one of them. First Yunho, now Jongho. Every last one of them was a fucking traitor, and San would tear them to pieces if he ever got the chance. So much for _family._

San would see them all in hell. 

“You little traitor,” San growled, face twisted in a livid snarl. 

“How twisted are you for you to think _I’m_ the traitor here, San? I’m just doing my job.”

 _I’m just doing my job_. 

San had heard that line before. 

Jongho popped the lid and reached a hand inside the bucket. There was a wet, chilling sound as he fished around inside, and what he pulled out made San’s heart drop to the floor. Crawling and writhing around in his gloved palm were the plump, pale bodies of… 

… _Maggots?_

“No, no wait—” San stammered as Jongho’s hand lifted toward San’s mouth. 

_No no no no no—_

“Open wide.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THIS GOT SO LONG HOLY SHIT but i didn’t wanna slice it into two chapters so uhhhh yeah. my bad for the delay but it’s like two chapters in one? so yea. haha bet u didn’t think there would be smut in the middle of all this shit?? fooled ya. i’m a slut for flashbacks so get ready lol. and dude i accidentally grabbed an electric fence once and i would not recommend that shit 
> 
> if you liked the maggots you’re gonna love the leeches. and my browsing history is so sketch you guys. the fbi is going to show up at my door one of these days i hope ur happy
> 
> twitter & tumblr @ yungwooyoung
> 
> fic playlist that goes hard as fuck [here!!](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/5eGeySTdOkbL7GnwxifYW7?si=Srtv7kQNSbyvS_ZwvoA6hg)


	23. because you chose evil

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> holy guacamole my bad for the slow update but shits been crazy bro. but i'm still here don't worry!! i have not abandoned u 
> 
> ok torture warnings for this chapter:
> 
> leeches (oof), waterboarding, force-feeding (+maggots), mentions of things like denailing and electric shock (but not graphically depicted)
> 
> WANNA SEE SOMETHING TOTALLY DISGUSTING spoilers it's [leeches ](https://i.cbc.ca/1.5361390.1573846465!/fileImage/httpImage/feeding-leeches-on-blood-sausage.gif) don't say i didn't warn u

Wooyoung wiped away a bead of sweat that dripped down his temple. His skin felt blisteringly hot and ice cold all at once, his throat raspy and dry. 

He was thirsty. _Excruciatingly_ thirsty. 

The air was thick as molasses with the scent of blood pumping just beneath skin, rushing in the veins of the humans that danced and moved in the club all around him. It was suffocating, and every molecule of air that reached his nose was soaked in it like a rich wine. He swallowed, and a chill ran across his skin, tingling like goosebumps on a frigid morning. 

Wooyoung sipped his vodka tonic, trying to focus on weeding out one particular scent—type O. Zico was very particular with his victims, only drinking from pretty girls with long black hair and type O blood. Wooyoung was tasked with finding one and bringing her to him, but his own thirst was seriously infringing on his ability to think. 

Every scent seemed to muddle together, choking him like a room thick with incense smoke, intoxicating, distracting, _maddening_. He couldn’t tell O from A, B from AB. It all smelled the same, all equally as mouth-watering, tempting him like a starved man in a steakhouse. He choked down his drink, the cool fizz of the tonic doing nothing to quell his thirst. 

Ten days since San’s arrest without so much as a drop of blood to sustain him. The first few days he felt lethargic, irritable, anxious, but he also had lack of sleep to thank for that. Sleep was hard to come by, knowing San was being put through hell with each passing day. Then came the pain in his throat, the ache in his head, the twitch in his fingers. Now there was cold sweat dripping down his neck as he fought the urge to sink his teeth into anything with a heartbeat, dying to feel the rich, velvety texture of human blood on his tongue. 

Wooyoung refused. The idea of drinking from anyone that wasn’t San made him sick. How could he press his lips to someone’s throat without thinking of San? Without imagining the taste of San's skin on his tongue, his warm, inviting scent, or the pulse of his heartbeat? Every little thing was a visceral, painful reminder of San’s absence, a sharp knife between his ribs. He couldn’t bring himself to drink from Val, or even Hongjoong, who shared San’s blood type. He didn’t want another type B, he wanted _San_. 

But now it seemed his bloodthirst was starting to outweigh his heartbreak. 

The thirst was unbearable, an itch he couldn’t scratch, seeping into every crevice of his mind like a disease. People didn’t really look like people anymore, so much as walking Capri Sun pouches just waiting to be sucked dry. Like a fox in a henhouse, or an alcoholic in a wine cellar, his prey was right in the palm of his hand, just begging for Wooyoung to have a taste. He swallowed again, and dabbed at the sweat beading along his forehead with the sleeve of his shirt. Wooyoung tossed back the rest of his drink, bitter and unsatisfying. 

“Another?” someone asked, sliding into the seat beside Wooyoung. 

Wooyoung cleared away the rasp in his throat. “No—no thanks,” he replied, giving his best attempt to sound normal. As in, not like a vampire on the brink of slaughtering everyone in sight.

Wooyoung turned to see who had joined him. A man around his age, give or take a few years, well-dressed and adorned with a friendly smile. Wooyoung caught a whiff of his scent as he approached, making his throat go bone-dry and his fingers twitch around his empty glass. _Type B_. He could tell from this close. Sweeter, more mild. Wooyoung could practically _hear_ the blood rushing in his veins. 

“You alright?” the man asked. If it was genuine concern or just a ploy to get in his pants, Wooyoung wasn’t sure. His brain wasn’t exactly equipped to interpret social cues at the moment. 

Wooyoung gave a forced smile. “Yeah. Fine. Just, uh…” 

Wooyoung imagined what it would be like to sink his teeth into his jugular, blood waterfalling onto the floor as everyone around them screamed and ran for their lives. He didn’t meet the man’s eyes, worried the deranged thoughts filling his head would be visible on his face. Wooyoung tried to take a couple deep breaths to calm himself, but it only served to strengthen the scent. His fingers twitched against the misty edge of his glass. 

The man gave a smile. It was friendly, almost charming. He probably had a lot of friends. He probably had parents and siblings who would miss him if he died. Maybe he was someone’s soulmate, not that Wooyoung really believed in shit like that. He had coworkers, hobbies, favorite restaurants. He didn’t deserve to die. 

And yet, Wooyoung couldn’t stop thinking about bleeding him dry.

“Stood up, huh? Don’t feel bad, it happens. Even to someone as cute as you,” the man said with a shrug.

Stood up? “Uh… yeah,” Wooyoung rasped. _Sure, ok. Let’s go with that_. 

At the very least, it meant Wooyoung didn’t _look_ like he was thinking of slaughtering everyone in the club. Though, with how bad it was, he wasn’t sure how that was even possible. Wooyoung didn’t attempt conversation, still trying in vain to filter out the scent of a type O. If he wanted Zico to help him, he couldn’t come back empty handed. 

There was a pause before the man spoke again. “You sure you don’t want another drink? You look like you need one.”

Wooyoung laughed dryly. “I need a _drink_ , alright.” 

The man grinned and flagged down the bartender, the motion shifting the air just enough to send a fresh wave of his horrible, tantalizing aroma in Wooyoung’s direction. Wooyoung exhaled through his nose, clenching his jaw as he tried to rid himself of the scent. A shiver ran through his body, and he wiped at his forehead once again, cold sweat threatening to drip down his face. His fingers tightened around the glass so hard it started to crack, fracturing up the side and nearly shattering in his grip. He forced himself to let go of the glass before anyone could notice. 

A sudden hand on his back made him flinch, and the guy jumped as if startled. “Woah, s-sorry, are you sure you’re alright?” he asked, concern evident on his face. 

Wooyoung felt a sudden rush of anger that a man who wasn’t San would _dare_ touch him, whipping around to glare at him with a snarl on his lips like some kind of crazed beast. The guy was about San’s height, with San’s same blood type, but he wasn’t San. He wasn’t San, but Wooyoung desperately needed blood. He was about ready to tear his own face off, he needed it so bad. His lungs were choked with the scent of it all around him, drowning him until he couldn't breath. He _needed_ it. 

He could _hear_ the guy’s heartbeat, something he’d never been able to do before. Wooyoung’s ears were good, but not _that_ good. His thirst seemed to amp up his senses to the max, until all he could see, taste, smell, hear, was blood, blood, _blood_. Wooyoung’s hands shook as the guy lingered in his personal space, torturing Wooyoung with his scent. 

He couldn’t take it anymore. 

“Need… I need—” Wooyoung panted, fighting the urge to tear the guy apart right in the middle of the club. 

“Yeah, let’s go get some air, ok?” The guy placed a hand on Wooyoung’s shoulder, gently guiding him out of his seat, and Wooyoung felt another spark of rage. He dug his nails into his palms until they bled, wanting nothing more than to snap his wrist in two for daring to lay a hand on him. 

_You’re not San_. 

_Not San, not San, not San_.

The words rang in his mind, rattling around painfully in his skull like boulders. He wanted San, and no one else. 

San wasn’t there. 

San was gone, and it was his fault. 

Gone, gone, _gone_. 

He was so _angry._ At the agents who took San, at N for catalyzing this mess, at the military for turning him into a hybrid, at the whole fucking world. At himself, for being the reason behind San’s arrest, and at the thirst that clawed at his throat. He was angry for being born into a world where he was constantly being hunted, constantly being taken from, constantly dragged beneath the wheel. Every step forward was like sinking into quicksand, despair swallowing him whole again after the slightest taste of salvation. 

The man’s heartbeat was deafening, beckoning him over the blaring music and sea of voices. Though his touch was light, the man’s hand against the small of his back burned like fire, and all Wooyoung could think about was ripping it off and shoving it down the guy’s throat. He imagined how lovely it would be to watch him scream, clutching his arm as blood poured from where his hand once was. How lovely the sidewalk would look drenched in blood, how lovely he would taste as he died in Wooyoung’s arms, helpless as he bled out. 

He led Wooyoung out of the building, through a cloud of lingering smoke as they passed a crowd of people chattering drunkenly around their cigarettes. The pungent scent of tobacco did nothing to mask the scent of blood, rich and inviting underneath their delicate human skin. Like a soft, tender dumpling, he wanted to tear into them and watch the steaming broth dribble out. 

Wooyoung staggered past them, clenching his jaw so hard it felt like his teeth would shatter. He shook the guy’s hand off, rounding the corner that led to an alley on the side of the building. It was clear of people, and he was _almost_ free of the scent of blood, minus the guy’s. Wooyoung gasped for breath, grabbing the wall for support, nails carving lines into the brick from the ferocity of his grip. If only that guy would go the fuck away, then maybe he could breathe. 

“You don’t look so good,” the guy commented, concern evident in his voice. “Did… did someone put something in your drink?”

“Don’t touch me!” Wooyoung snarled. “I—I can’t—”

“It’s ok, I won’t hurt you, just—”

The guy put his hands on Wooyoung’s back again, and Wooyoung snapped. 

“I said don’t—touch—me!” Wooyoung grabbed him by the shirt and threw him against the wall, his back making a hefty _thud_ as it slammed against the bricks. “You’re not San,” he rasped. 

“Hey, easy, easy!” 

“You’re not San,” Wooyoung repeated. 

_Not San. Not San. Not San_.

_I want San._

_Give him back to me._

The ache was back, the knife between his ribs that dug into his heart each time he pictured San’s face. He’d never truly _missed_ anyone before. Not his parents who’d disowned him, nor the rest of his family. He’d never cared about anyone enough to miss them. San was the first—an anomaly, an unforeseen natural disaster that decimated his fortress of self-preservation, someone who got under his skin and rooted himself inside Wooyoung’s life as someone important. Someone worth missing. 

Wooyoung didn’t know which was worse—the pain in his heart, or the pain in his throat. 

Wooyoung’s eyes fell to the man’s neck. He could hear the _thump, thump, thump_ of his heartbeat, his arteries plump and throbbing in a torturous rhythm. Wooyoung licked his lips, and the man’s Adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed. Wooyoung leaned closer, drinking in his scent, letting it fill his nose and fog his brain with desire. 

Wooyoung was so close he could see every goosebump rippling across the man’s skin, the warm flush of every capillary, the blue tint of his veins through layers of rich pigmented flesh, all just begging for Wooyoung to sink his fangs in. A living blood bag just waiting to be drained. 

“Is that the guy who stood you up?” the man asked, eyes flickering across Wooyoung’s face. 

_Thump, thump, thump_. 

“Quiet,” Wooyoung snapped, barely able to think over the sound of the man’s heartbeat. 

Wooyoung never killed to drink. Not since the time when he’d first been turned into a hybrid, at least. He sank his teeth into the nurse at the hospital and left her on the floor to die, leaving her in a puddle of her own blood as he escaped. Then Yeosang found him, terrified, confused, and drenched in blood in an alleyway, disgusted with himself by what he’d just done. Yeosang brought him back to the bunker, where Hongjoong became his donor until he learned how to “drink in moderation.” 

Yeosang and Seonghwa taught him how to survive without killing, whether it be from seeking out willing participants who got off on being bitten, or robbing Red Cross trucks, anything to stay alive without causing unnecessary harm. And ever since Val came along, finding a supply was no longer on his list of concerns. Never before had he let his thirst get this bad, to the point where he was seriously considering ripping an innocent man to shreds. 

He was an idiot for refusing to drink from Hongjoong and Val, letting his thirst go unchecked until it ate away at his sanity and left him a drooling, bloodthirsty mess. More vampire than human. 

“If you wanna know _my_ name,” the guy offered. “It’s—”

 _Thump, thump, thump_. 

“Don’t care,” Wooyoung spat, cutting him off. 

Wooyoung didn’t kill to feed—that was his rule. His only dogma, if he had one. 

Why?

What was he so afraid of? Where did this arbitrary sense of right and wrong come from? Why should he care about the life of some stranger? Everybody has to die, at some point, so what if it was a little too soon? If there was a hell, he’d be going there regardless, so what was the fucking point?

He knew better than anyone that life wasn’t fair. 

The universe didn’t give a shit about him, or about anyone for that matter. They were all just bags of meat with inflated egos, waiting for the day of their inevitable death. No meaning, no purpose. All scraping by to satisfy their own petty desires, using each other as stepping stones to get what they wanted. There was no good or evil, just a bunch of made-up rules by people elected into a made-up system of power. Made-up morality, made-up justice, made-up gods to tell people what they could and couldn’t do. 

The universe hadn’t been fair to him, why should he be fair to anyone else? 

This guy wasn’t San. 

He wasn’t San, so why should Wooyoung care about him? This guy was exactly that—just a _guy,_ a stranger. 

The only human he cared about was San. The rest were worthless to him. 

_Worthless. Disposable. Nothing._

Wooyoung needed to drink, and he was surrounded by a bunch of walking blood bags. He was half vampire after all, so why fight it? Why deny what he was? He was a monster, someone created to kill. He was a predator, and humans were his prey. Do humans feel guilt when they kill for meat to survive? Does a lion feel guilt when it sinks its teeth into a zebra’s flesh? 

_Thump, thump, thump_. 

He thought about what Zico said—

_“See, I think selling your soul comes in steps, not all at once. It’s like a ladder, and its rungs are made of the bones of the people who get in your way. The more you kill, the higher you climb. Get it?”_

The more he killed, the higher he would climb. Starting with the innocent waitress, he’d slaughter everyone who got in his way. He would get San back one way or another, regardless of how much blood he had to spill. San’s life was the only one that mattered to him, everyone else was worthless to him. He was a predator, and humans were his prey. 

For the first time that night, he looked the man in the eye, and a smile spread across Wooyoung’s face, revealing his fangs in the low light of the alleyway. 

“Actually… tell me. I need to practice,” Wooyoung muttered.

“It’s Hongbin. And… practice what?” the man asked, frowning. 

Hongbin’s eyes slid down, his heartbeat speeding up the moment they settled on Wooyoung’s fangs. His scent spiked, blood pumping faster through his veins as he realized the danger he was in. 

Wooyoung grinned wider. “Killing people who don’t deserve it.”

The heartbeat grew even faster. Hongbin tried to push Wooyoung away, but Wooyoung grabbed him by the wrist, sealing his other hand around Hongbin’s mouth when he tried to scream. The scent of his blood kept getting stronger the more he struggled, turning richer by the second. It smelled incredible before, but now it was like something else entirely, something darker and purely intoxicating, and Wooyoung grew dizzy as he drank in the aroma.

Then it dawned on him— _fear_. 

Could it be _fear_ that made his victim-to-be smell so… enticing? 

Wooyoung was practically salivating with the need to sink his fangs into Hongbin’s neck, but he wanted to test out the theory first. Wooyoung squeezed his fingers that held Hongbin’s wrist, slowly increasing the pressure until he heard a _crack_ , and Hongbin screamed into his hand. Just as expected, his scent spiked again, saturating Wooyoung’s nose in its rich, delectable notes. 

No wonder vampires were known for toying with their victims. It was addicting, the way his scent kept getting richer the more terrified he became. It was like discovering that spices made food taste better—in hindsight, it was so _obvious_. Wooyoung slid his gaze up to meet Hongbin’s wide eyes. 

“Do you have people who would miss you, Hongbin?” Wooyoung asked gently. 

Hongbin gave a frantic, pleading nod, whimpering into Wooyoung’s hand. 

“Family? Kids?” 

Another nod. The _thump thump thump_ of his heartbeat grew ever louder. 

He wasn’t San, but that’s exactly why his life was worthless. Insignificant, disposable. No one’s blood would ever taste as good to him as San’s, but he had to keep himself alive in the meantime, otherwise his efforts would all be for nothing. 

Wooyoung shivered, unable to hold back any longer. “That’s too bad.” 

Wooyoung sank his teeth into Hongbin’s neck. His fangs tore through his flesh like butter, ripping through his skin and tearing into his jugular like what they were designed for. Fresh, warm blood poured into Wooyoung's mouth, sweet yet savory, rich yet light, an indescribable flavor that soothed his throat like cocoa on a cold Christmas eve, or an icy daiquiri on a blistering summer day. A type of umami that a Michelin star chef couldn’t even dream of. 

Sure, it wasn’t San’s, but it was… different. Refreshing. _Addictive._

A shiver rippled through Wooyoung's body, a feral growl erupting from his throat like some kind of animal. Something primal came over him, filling him with the urge to shred the guy to fucking pieces. He wanted to tear through flesh and rip through tendons, he wanted to hear the way his bones snapped like stalks of celery in his grip. He wanted to leave the alleyway a mess, splashed with red, his victim's body in pieces, so mangled and broken they'd have to use dental records to identify him.

_Thump, thump-thump… thump…_

The heartbeat was erratic, faltering. Wooyoung swallowed in eager gulps, desperate for more, the taste like nothing he’d ever experienced in all his days as a hybrid. Wooyoung wasn’t sure if he had his hunger to blame, or if it was the adrenaline coursing through Hongbin’s veins, but he couldn’t stop. He didn’t stop until Hongbin went limp in his arms, his muffled screams against Wooyoung’s palm dying out into pathetic, feeble whimpers. 

_Thump…_

The artery pulsing between his lips went still, the blood ceasing its rush in the stranger's vessels. Wooyoung could _taste_ that final heartbeat, the final flicker of life before fading from existence. It was exhilarating, being the cause for the stranger's final breath. Hongbin was someone's son, someone's friend, and then, just like that—he wasn't. Not anymore. He was nothing but a corpse, a shell of meat and tendons waiting to be picked apart by rats until some poor bystander found him. Life wasn't fair to Wooyoung—and Wooyoung sure as hell wasn't going to be fair to anyone else. 

Wooyoung let Hongbin’s body fall to the pavement, crumpling in a heap of dead, drained limbs. Wooyoung let out a hefty sigh, feeling like the haze in his mind had been lifted. He could finally breathe again, like he’d resurfaced after a near drowning, and the twitch in his fingers relaxed into stillness. He dragged his sleeve across his mouth, feeling wetness drip all the way down his neck to his chest, seeping into his clothes like he’d been caught in a crimson rainstorm. 

_Shit_. He still had a mission to do, and now his clothes were ruined. 

As he stepped away from his victim’s body, a young couple stumbled into the alleyway, nearly crashing into him. Their drunken giggling ceased the moment they laid eyes on him, then turned to screams as they saw the body on the ground. They tried to run, but Wooyoung grabbed the girl by the arm and the man by the collar of his jacket. Now that his senses weren’t clouded by the overwhelming desire to feed, he could clearly differentiate the differences in their blood types. The woman was type O, and she just so happened to have long, silky black hair. 

“Wait up. Your blood type is O, right?” Wooyoung asked calmly, spinning her around to face him. She was pretty, too, just what he was looking for. 

“P-please, let me go!” she wailed, trying to fight her way out of his grip. 

“Agh—motherfucker!” the man cursed. 

The man reeled and took a swing at him, and Wooyoung shoved his head into the wall with a sickening _crack_. His knees immediately buckled, and he fell to the ground like a rag doll, a smear of blood decorating the bricks where his skull made impact. Wooyoung silenced the woman’s scream with his hand, giving her a polite smile. 

“D-don’t kill me! Please! D—” she stammered, muffled into his hand. 

“Don’t worry, I need you alive. For right now, at least.” He smacked her head against the wall, not hard enough to shatter her skull, just enough to knock her unconscious. She went limp in his arms. 

He had to bring her to Zico alive, so her blood would stay fresh. He was Zico’s errand dog, after all. That was the agreement—he worked for Zico, answering to his every beck and call, in exchange for helping break San out of confinement. Bringing him prey, organizing drug shipments, playing cards with him when he was bored, whatever he wanted. It was a small price to pay for such a huge return, and, honestly… 

Killing wasn’t so hard after all. 

Hell, it was _fun_.

“No, please please _please!”_

A hoarse scream ripped from San’s throat as rough hands lifted him up into the air, his hands and feet bound to keep him restrained. He writhed and thrashed against the guards’ hold, but it was no use. He’d dropped so much weight since being detained that he didn’t stand a chance against one, let alone two of them, especially while heavily restrained. They picked him up like it was nothing, walking him over to a tub that had been brought into the Box, holding him over the water as he screamed and begged for mercy. 

He could still taste the maggots on his tongue, their putrid, pus-filled bodies jammed into every crevice of his teeth from Jongho having mashed them down his throat. He could still feel them writhing on his tongue, festering and churning in his stomach even after he vomited them back up, tickling in his throat like they were climbing up his esophagus. The thought of it made him retch again, bile stinging his throat like battery acid. Jongho’s interrogations were getting more creative, if what awaited San next was anything to go by.

“No no no no _no!”_ San wailed, his bare body dangling precariously over the tub. 

_No, please, stop—_

“How many hybrids do you know, San? Where are they all hiding?” 

_San._

Jongho was the only interrogator who called him that. Using San’s first name like they were still friends. Jongho talked to him like a friend, like a buddy, not a prisoner. He did it to fuck with San’s head, most likely. That’s what he was good at—fucking with San’s head. 

Jongho’s methods of interrogation were never physical, not compared to the others, at least. Jongho never technically, physically _hurt_ him. No pliers, no soldering iron, no whip, no electric shock, though San’s collar stayed on at all times. Waterboarding was the most physical of his methods, and even that was tame in comparison. At first glance, Jongho’s methods would seem almost humane, relatively speaking, but that was far from the case. Jongho wasn’t trying to inflict physical pain. 

He wanted to inflict _psychological_ pain. 

And he was proving to be quite the prodigy. He knew San, like a friend—a brother—and he used that to his advantage. He knew San was stubborn as hell, and could handle a great deal of pain. The physical torture was only on the outside, and San could shut his mind off, creating a shell around it to dissociate through the pain. It wasn’t that he couldn’t _feel_ it—he still felt every volt, every burn, every crunch of the pliers—but he could distance himself from it, imagining nerve impulses as just that, messages being sent to his brain, triggering a response. Override the response—that was his strategy, that was the only way to bear it. 

No—

Bearable wasn’t the word. It was never _bearable_ , but San had a way of keeping his mind and body separated, a razor wire fence around the perimeter of his brain, preventing his sanity from escaping. He kept everything locked tight, not a single shred of useful information slipping through his lips unwarranted. San often spoke in Japanese to distance himself from the interrogators, creating a language barrier that would further protect him from letting something slip on accident. His time as an exchange student paid off in ways San would have never expected. It would be harder to let something slip if he wasn’t speaking his native language, or so he hoped. 

But… Jongho wasn’t aiming to inflict _that_ kind of pain. 

Jongho knew exactly who San was. Well, at least he _thought_ he did, before this whole fucking mess. He knew about San’s parents, how they died, how San never had any meaningful romantic relationships since then, the fear of loss and heartbreak keeping an icy shell around his heart that couldn’t melt despite how many shitty relationships he tried his hand at. Jongho knew he used to cycle through boyfriends like crazy before he eventually gave up, few of them ever lasting more than a month, if he was lucky. They always tried to _fix_ San, which pissed him off to no end. Combined with his quick temper, he had them running for their lives like it was his specialty. Hell, things ended so violently with his first boyfriend in college that San thought he’d never date again. 

San wouldn’t just _give_ his heart away. Wooyoung practically tore it from his chest, slowly ripping away every vein and artery until he held it in his bloody hands, grinning with that beautiful, glowing smile of his. His heart belonged to Wooyoung now, and he would fight tooth and claw to keep him safe. San was ferocious when it came to the people he cared about, because it didn’t happen often. San felt that way toward Yunho once, believe it or not. He would have slaughtered anyone who dared lay a hand on his former best friend. Funny how the tides shift. 

Jongho knew this, of course.

Jongho _knew_ how important Wooyoung must have been to San, if he would go to such lengths to keep him a secret. Jongho was an intuitive little shit, probably some kind of genius. Always the type who knew when San was feeling down, even if he didn’t mention it aloud. He had a great feel for people, and he made a damn excellent cop because of it. He could tell when people were nervous or lying, even if he couldn’t put into words exactly _what_ made him think so. It shouldn’t have come as a shock when he decided to try his hand at being an interrogator, and San would have been downright proud if he wasn’t the one on the receiving end. 

“You have always been pretty bullheaded. You stick to your guns, I always liked that about you. You did your own thing, even if it got you in trouble. Well, I guess you went a little _too_ far in that aspect, but you know what I mean,” Jongho said, pacing slowly a few feet away as the guards raised San in the air above the tub. 

“Please, Jong, wait—” 

“You’re really putting yourself through the wringer, here. I don’t know if it’s sad or impressive. A little of both, I guess,” Jongho mused, ignoring San’s desperate cries. 

Jongho’s brand of interrogation was worse than any of the others. Much, much worse. 

“See, I don’t know this hybrid myself, but you must be pretty damn close if you’d eat live maggots for him. Or… bathe in a tub full of leeches for him?”

 _Leeches_. 

He’d take ten rounds of electric shock in a heartbeat over _leeches._

“D-don’t, don’t, please—” San croaked. 

His skin crawled at the mere thought of it. Cold sweat dripped down his forehead and trailed down his neck, his damp palms clenched into bruisingly tight fists, the tips of his fingers stinging like fire where his nails had been torn off. He hated bugs, parasites, snakes—anything that slithered. Always had, since he was little. And, of course… 

Jongho knew. He liked to joke about it with San in the past, calling him a pussy for being afraid of creepy crawlies when he had no problem looking down the barrel of a gun. It was all fun and games, only now he wasn’t joking. He could already _feel_ the leeches crawling across his skin, and he hadn’t even touched the water yet. 

Jongho spoke again, his voice softer, more empathetic. “You weren’t just fucking him. You really love him, don’t you?” 

It was an act. He didn’t have a shred of sympathy for San, he was just putting on airs to pry open his psyche. San didn’t respond. 

“God, that’s so… _romantic_. If someone went through all of this for me, I would be head over heels for them. Is he? Your hybrid, I mean—is he head over heels for you, too?”

San froze. 

_Is he head over heels for you, too?_

Did Wooyoung love him? 

San… wasn’t sure. San’s feelings were probably plain as day, but he hadn’t _actually_ expressed them to Wooyoung. Despite everything, they never laid their feelings out on the table, and the fact that they’d been something more than friends was implied at best. It was entirely possible that Wooyoung still saw San as some kind of plaything. A pet, a toy… not a _lover_. 

San’s heart twisted at the possibility. 

What if Wooyoung _didn’t_ love him? 

San loved Wooyoung, that went without saying, but was he just delusional in thinking that Wooyoung loved him back? 

No—no, he _couldn't_ be. The way Wooyoung held him, kissed him, spoke to him… it felt genuine. Like he cared, like it wasn’t just a game. San didn’t feel like his plaything anymore, like somewhere along the line they’d become equals—more than enemies, and maybe even lovers, toward the end. They planned on running away together—like Bonnie and Clyde, as one of San’s interrogators had put it. Wooyoung even took a bullet for San, one that would have pierced right through his chest, spilling his own blood for the sake of protecting San. 

San wasn’t delusional, was he? If taking a bullet for someone wasn't love, then what was?

But that’s the thing—San wasn’t sure. 

And now, he had no way of truly knowing. He could think in circles all day and still not get any answers. That’s exactly what Jongho was after—to shake up his mind and tear a hole in his defenses. He wanted San to be unsure, to question his own motives and think in circles until the cracks started to show. San’s resolve was all he had, it would be the end for him if he lost it. Not only the end for him, but the end for Wooyoung as well. San wouldn’t crack. He _couldn’t._

Jongho’s eyebrows shot up. “What’s that look for? What, are you telling me you don’t know if he actually loves you?”

Stop. 

Stop, stop, _stop_. 

_Stop messing with my head_. 

San pictured the razor wire fence in his mind getting taller, protecting his thoughts from escaping. He wouldn’t give up a shred of what he knew, not even a name, for fear of tearing a hole through his fence that he couldn’t fix. 

“So… I see this in one of two ways.” Jongho gently brushed a sweaty clump of hair out of San’s wide, frantic eyes. “Maybe he _doesn’t_ love you, and you’re putting yourself through hell for nothing more than a sad little crush…”

 _Wrong, wrong, wrong_. 

“But, think about it this way, San. What if he does love you? Put yourself in his shoes. You’re out there in the world somewhere, and he’s in here, suffering, begging for death every damn day of his life. If you really loved him, wouldn’t you want his suffering to end? You wouldn’t want him going through all of this.”

 _No_. 

_Shut up, shut up!_

_Stop messing with my damn head_.

“Are you following my thought process here, San? If he really loved you, then he wouldn’t want you to suffer. Even if it meant something might happen to him. Wouldn’t you feel the same way?”

San knew it was just another technique to weasel intel out of him, but it didn’t necessarily mean he was wrong. If Wooyoung was in his position, San would want him to talk. He’d want Wooyoung to do whatever it took to escape the pain of being trapped in this hell. If Wooyoung _did_ love him, he wouldn’t want San to suffer like this. But for San, the only thing worse than his own suffering was the idea of Wooyoung being in his position instead. 

San would never talk. Even if it’s what Wooyoung would have wanted. 

It was the only thing left that San had any say in, any control over, and it would take a hell of a lot more than breaking his bones or dunking him in a tub full of leeches to break him. 

Although… the leeches made his skin crawl like no interrogator ever could. 

“Shut _up!”_ San gritted, writhing against his restraints. The guards tightened their hold. 

“I mean, you _must_ love him, if you were willing to abandon the people who considered you their family. We were all you had, San. Why throw it away for someone who isn’t even human?”

“You’re not my fucking _family!”_ San snarled, thrashing against the guards’ hold, the water’s surface just inches away. 

“You’re right, not anymore.” Jongho gave a chilling smile. “When I’m the one who gets you to crack, I’ll earn twice as much respect as you ever had. Do you know how humiliating it was, being the best friend of a hybrid-fucking murderer? Not just me, but Yunho and Mingi as well? People were awfully quiet toward us, like _we_ were somehow involved in all of your shit. They treat us like traitors.” 

Yunho. 

Yunho, Yunho, _Yunho_. 

At the mention of his name, San’s blood boiled. Poor, poor Yunho felt _humiliated_ being associated with San? Ostracized by his peers—for something that was entirely his fault? When Yunho chose to arrest San with his own two hands? Was San expected to have _sympathy_ for him? What a hilarious fucking joke. If only Yunho knew what real humiliation felt like. San would _love_ to do the honors of teaching him. 

San would make Yunho regret that day with every fiber of his being. 

“You can eat _shit_ , you motherfucker!” San spat through his teeth, lips curled into a vicious snarl. “You think I give a _fuck_ how you feel?”

His throat was scraped raw from screaming, and every word stung like sandpaper. His voice was rough and hoarse, so wrecked it didn’t even sound like his own. San was livid that Jongho would dare suggest he and Yunho had it worse, contempt pumping hot through his veins. He wanted to wrap his hands around Jongho’s neck and _twist_ , cracking the vertebrae in his cervical spine as he wrung the life out of him like a damn sewer rat. He wanted to squeeze Jongho’s throat so hard his eyes popped out, blood vessels bursting in his sclera like a strawberry gusher. 

Jongho smiled. His eyes slid to the guards. “Drop him.”

Panic hit him like a train. “No, _no_ —”

San’s stomach dropped. Below was a tub full of writhing, squirming bodies, a mass of black, worm-like parasites dying to sink their teeth into his flesh. Dozens of them, twisting around in the water like live, hungry streaks of ink. San’s feet were strapped together, his wrists cuffed and bound to his sides to keep him incapacitated. He was powerless as the guards lowered him, icy water lapping at his back and creeping up his chest as they let go. He was up to his neck in it, every inch of skin below his collarbone exposed to the leeches’ bloodsucking bite. 

San screamed, thrashing in the tub as leeches coated his body, writhing and slithering against his skin as they sank their teeth in one by one. 

_No, please, no—_

“Oh, god, please! Let me out! Please, I can’t—” San wailed, unable to escape the gut-wrenching sensations consuming his body as his skin crawled with slick, writhing parasites. 

“How is it? Relaxing?” Jongho asked rhetorically. “I thought it would be fitting for you. You know, since you like having your blood sucked by that little leech so much. Isn’t that what he is, after all?”

 _That little leech._

It disgusted him, listening to Jongho compare Wooyoung to a filthy, horrific parasite. The leeches clung to his body, sinking their teeth into his skin like a blood sausage, streaks of red painting the water as he bled.

“ _Agh—_ ” San clenched his teeth, chills erupting across his skin, like nails on a chalkboard. It was revolting, the way they slithered against his skin like worms, surrounding him, completely inescapable.

“You know what’s interesting? Leeches secrete an anaesthetic when they bite, which makes them painless. Painless in that regard, anyway. So, ready to talk yet? It’s up to you, you can sit in there all day for all I care.”

“Let me out— let me out let me out let me out—“ San begged, hyperventilating as panic gripped every cell in his body. 

“I’ll let you out once you tell me about your hybrid.” 

San couldn’t breathe. Darkness crept around the edges of his vision, shrinking his world into a tunnel, the leeches on his skin the only thing in view, the water alive with their twisting, churning silhouettes. 

_Let me out, please—_

His chest was heaving, desperate for oxygen like trying to breathe through a straw. His limbs trembled against their restraints, shivering in the ice cold water that lapped up to his collarbone. 

_Please, somebody—_

San was mere seconds from fainting when he felt water dumping all over his face, pouring out from a hose in Jongho’s fist. San gasped, spitting it from his mouth and squeezing his eyes shut, his nose stinging as he inhaled water. His hair plastered to his face as it was soaked, clinging to his eyes in heavy, wet clumps.

“Talk,” Jongho commanded simply. 

San choked as the water continued pouring over his face, the guard’s hand in his hair keeping his head roughly tipped back. He couldn’t breathe, drowning in the stream of water while being eaten alive by parasites. His futile gasps for breath became increasingly desperate as he ran out of oxygen entirely, thrashing against his restraints in the tub. 

The water stopped, and San coughed wildly, spitting up the droplets that had collected in his lungs. He only had a few seconds to catch his breath before the water was on him again, suffocating him just to the edge of drowning but never quite there, in an endless, merciless cycle. 

_Kill me._

_Please, kill me. I’m begging you._

“Ok, let’s try again. This lab that was in the hotel—who was responsible for the explosion? Three seconds. Three, two, one…”

“I don’t—know—" San choked out.

“Don’t waste my time with that.” 

Water, stop, repeat. 

Choking, drowning, repeat. 

Over, and over, and over. 

_Kill me_.

 _Kill me, god, please_. 

The water ceased again, giving San a chance to speak. His chest heaved, lungs aching from abuse, throat torn to shreds and burning with each desperate breath. The leeches slithering against him were but a distant thought, pushed to the back of his mind by the repeated drownings. 

_Kill me._

_I’m begging you._

“Why are you doing this to me?” San croaked, his voice weak from exhaustion. 

Jongho scoffed. “What kind of question is that? Because you chose evil, San. You’re a murderer.”

 _Evil. Murderer_. 

Harsh words coming from someone who would throw him into a tub full of leeches and drown him within an inch of his life. If San was evil, then Jongho and the other interrogators were the devil himself. What a joke—after all they did to him, _San_ was the evil one? Out of all the fucked up shit he’d done in his life, none of it was even _half_ as cruel as what they’d done to him.

 _Fiat justitia et pereat mundus_ —let justice be done, though the world perish. 

This world was rotten. There was no justice, only power in the hands of those who misused it. They’re the ones who deserved a sentence, not him, but the long arm of the law had a way of crushing those who got in its way.

“I’m not evil,” San rasped. “I’m not, please, Jong—”

Jongho gave an incredulous laugh. “You want me to feel _sorry_ for you?” He leaned in close, his expression faltering into something less controlled. “Do you know how embarrassing it is, when the person you looked up to turned out to be a rotten piece of shit? I was mortified. You should see the looks I get now, like I’m gonna be the next traitor. Like I somehow sympathize with you just because we were friends.”

“Jongho—"

“So you better hurry up and crack. I’m sick of all the looks. I worked too hard to get where I am to not be taken seriously. Do me a favor, San—you know how much this job means to me.”

“I can’t,” San croaked, begging Jongho with his eyes. 

“Yes, you can.”

“I can’t, Jongho, please!” 

“You really care about some hybrid more than us, huh? I just—why? I’m not asking as your interrogator, I’m asking as your friend. How did this happen?”

 _I’m asking as your friend_. 

What gave him the right to still call San a friend, after all he’d done? It made him sick—more so than the maggots in his teeth, or the leeches sucking at his skin. Vile, disgusting, hypocritical, and yet _San_ was the evil one? What kind of friendship is that?

“A friend wouldn’t do this.” San’s voice was nothing but a broken whisper as he spoke.

Jongho’s expression hardened, his anger and frustration freezing over into a mask of indifference. “Yeah, I guess you’re right,” he said with a shrug. 

“Just kill me,” San pleaded. He felt gutted, like every ounce of energy had been sapped right from his bones like a maple tree bled for its syrup. All he wanted was to close his eyes and never wake up. 

“Oh, no,” Jongho smiled. “I’m not done with you yet.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> on this episode of bizarre foods with andrew zimmern: choi san dabbles in alternative protein sources. woo is cuckoo for cocoa puffs. jongho is on some kind of fear factor binge. it’s fine everyone is great
> 
> was the fact that i have a song called leech on my playlist a subtle spoiler or a weird coincidence?? imma go with both. happy new year everybody!! may capitalism consume us all 
> 
> twitter & tumblr @ yungwooyoung
> 
> fic playlist that goes hard as fuck [here!!](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/5eGeySTdOkbL7GnwxifYW7?si=Srtv7kQNSbyvS_ZwvoA6hg)


	24. pray the lord my soul to keep

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> if i don't post it's because i'm busy watching hot edits of san on insta. just being honest
> 
> no torture warnings for this chapter!! it's a tame one lets just chill for a bit

Frigid, unforgiving rain coated the city in an endless torrent, blackened water overflowing from gutters by the bucket full. The shit hole, ramshackle part of town reeked of gasoline and rust, a faint hint of putrid sewage leaking into the air every few blocks where a manhole cover was probably stolen and melted down for cash. The kind of place that even rats wouldn't dare settle, much less anything on two legs. Or so one might think.

Wooyoung sloshed through the rain drenched streets, wiping water from his face as it continued to blind him. Few street lamps illuminated his surroundings, as most of them had gone out from lack of service. Shards of glass crunched under his shoes as he ran, the cold air stinging his lungs with every breath. 

His assailant followed close, hardly a block’s distance between them, and shrinking by the minute. Wooyoung turned on his heels, abruptly rounding a corner that put him between two decrepit buildings, shops that had their windows smashed by looters and gutted for all they were worth. His feet skidded against the pavement, grinding his soles against the slick asphalt in his desperate attempt to escape. He stumbled a bit, then caught himself and kept running. 

The sound of boots splashing just meters away told Wooyoung he was still being chased. The guy was persistent, and fast as hell. Wooyoung hadn’t fed in days, and it was really starting to show. He hadn’t expected an ordinary deal to be crashed by a Special Operations team, and to say the timing couldn’t have been any worse would have been an understatement. Of all the times to be ambushed, it just had to be when his body was at its weakest. Just great. 

Wooyoung only needed to shake him for a few seconds, then he could—

_Bang!_

Wooyoung fell to the ground, his knees sinking into an oil slicked puddle of rain. His chest burned where a bullet had pierced, a clean exit wound right through his sternum. Blood poured down the front of his jacket, turning his fingers red where he clutched at it. 

Fuck.

The sound of splashing boots grew closer until his assailant was right on him, throwing Wooyoung to the ground, pinning him with the weight of his body. Wooyoung’s head smacked against the pavement as he was forced down with a knife against his throat, the steel cold and unforgiving against his skin. The agent was strong, though not much larger than Wooyoung himself, and Wooyoung felt his strength draining as he bled. He was in no condition to fight, especially against an Ops. 

Wooyoung blinked water from his eyes, getting a good look at the agent’s face. His eyes were emotionless, reflecting coldly in the dim, flickering light of the street lamp, but his features were unmistakable. 

“San?” Wooyoung breathed, lips falling open in surprise. 

“You again,” San spat, his tone laced with annoyance. 

_Huh?_

San’s expression was stern, the glare in his eyes colder than the rain that poured over them, not a trace of his usual warmth. His lips weren’t curled into a dimpled smile like they usually were when he saw Wooyoung, and his tone of voice was anything but friendly. It was as though they were strangers—

—No, _enemies._

“San, it’s me, what are you—”

“What’s your name, purple?” San demanded.

 _Purple?_ San had called him that when they’d first met, thanks to Wooyoung’s hair, but that was months ago. There’s no way San wouldn’t know his name—what the hell was going on? 

“What are you talking about? It’s me, Wooyoung!” Wooyoung’s voice shook with unease, his stomach twisting at the notion of San not remembering him. He swallowed against San’s blade. 

“You’re a hybrid?” San asked, his eyes flickering down to Wooyoung’s fangs, visible through his parted lips. His expression hardened immediately. “You seem young for one.” 

_Yeah? Guess we’re in the same boat, then_ , Wooyoung recalled himself saying during their first encounter. Back when they hadn’t known each other, when they were just a cop and a criminal, enemies on opposing sides of the law. Not acquaintances, not friends-with-benefits, not partners in crime. Not _lovers_. 

It broke Wooyoung’s heart to see San looking at him like that, like an exterminator would look at a sewer rat. Just a pest, a vermin that needed to be eradicated. Hybrids were a plague on society, after all—monstrous creatures that should never have existed in the first place. Not human, especially in the eyes of the Special Operations agents trained to kill them. 

_Not human_. 

The people Wooyoung worked with tended to keep him at arm’s length, and vice versa. His human clients kept their distance out of fear for what he was, apprehension and unease flickering in their eyes even when they themselves weren’t aware of it. It was understandable—Wooyoung was something to be feared, something dangerous. A weapon created to kill, with a mind of its own. Not human. 

San was one of the few who understood him for who he was. To San, he wasn’t a hybrid. He was _Wooyoung_. A person, not a monster. San was never once afraid of him, even when they were more like foes than anything else, and he treated Wooyoung with a level of respect that was beyond bizarre for someone of his position. An Ops treating a hybrid with respect was something unheard of, and treating one as a lover even more so. 

_I’m glad you’re still alive_ , San had said to him, lying naked on the floor, their limbs tangled together and eyes wet from laughter. It was like a butcher telling a pig he was glad it was alive. It was ass-backwards for an Ops to feel that way, but everything about San was ass-backwards, and that’s exactly what Wooyoung loved about him. He gave expectations the middle finger, choosing to do things his own way, to _feel_ things his own way. 

For San to look at him with such cold disdain, like something less than human… 

It really, _really_ hurt. 

“San, knock it off, this isn’t funny—” Wooyoung huffed, but cut himself off when he felt the edge of San’s blade press harder against his throat. 

“How do you know my name?” San demanded.

“You’ve known me for months, quit acting like we haven’t met!”

San scoffed. “I can’t say I know any hybrids, actually.” 

The word _hybrid_ was laced with disgust, like its taste was vile on his tongue. It stung, a sharp jolt of pain piercing Wooyoung’s chest just like San’s bullet had. Taking another bullet through the chest would have hurt less, actually. 

“You _do_ know me! We—you come to my hotel room all the time.” The way San’s face twisted sent another sharp sting through Wooyoung’s chest, like he was offended Wooyoung would dare suggest something of the sort. “You planned on quitting the Ops to skip town with me.”

“Skip town with _you?_ Why the hell would I do that?” 

Another sting. 

“B-because we—” Wooyoung stammered, shellshocked. “Because you—”

 _Because you love me._

Or, at least, Wooyoung _thought_ that was the reason. He couldn’t think of any other reason why San would be willing to quit his respectable job as a government official in favor of living on the run, giving up everything he’d worked for in exchange for life as a fugitive. Wooyoung deeply regretted not laying his feelings out sooner, like admitting he loved San aloud would have somehow prevented all of this from happening. He should have hopped in his car and left town with San that same night, instead of making him wait to think it over. There were a lot of things he _should_ have done, actually. 

Wooyoung _should_ have left San as vampire bait the very first night they met, instead of tossing him a vial of sol on a whim, changing the entire course of his life with just one simple action. He should have ditched San after drinking from him like he’d originally planned, but something compelled him to stay and fight, something well outside of his self-preserving nature. He didn’t even have a reason at the time—maybe part of him could sense that San was different. 

San stared down at him, not a shred of affection present in his eyes. 

Just the opposite—his eyes burned with such hatred that if left him almost unrecognizable. This wasn’t the San he knew. This was a ruthless, cold-hearted bloodhound wearing San’s face, a hired gun trained to apprehend hybrids by whatever means necessary. Wooyoung thrashed against his hold, but the blade at his throat held him down. His strength was draining away along with the blood pouring from his chest, staining the asphalt with smears of red. 

“Don’t resist. I’d prefer you alive, but I’ll kill you if I have to,” San spat, roughly shoving Wooyoung onto his stomach and wrenching his arms behind his back. 

Kill him? He wouldn’t, would he? Wooyoung wasn’t sure anymore. 

“San! Wait, San, hold on—” Wooyoung protested as San clicked the restraints around his wrists, rendering his arms useless. There was no gentility in the way San shoved his face against the grimy asphalt, just rough hands in a harsh grip on the back of his shirt, familiar and unfamiliar all at once. 

“Get up,” San commanded, yanking Wooyoung to his feet. 

“Wait, the—the vampires, they’ll smell the blood, we have to— “

“Vampires? The hell are you talking about?”

“They’re close, just listen!”

After a few beats of silence, San laughed. “Nice try—get the fuck up. _Now._ ”

 _What?_

There were supposed to be four vampires approaching, where the hell were they?

“But—I heard them, I swear they…” 

Wooyoung staggered as he rose, rocking on his heels, dizzy from blood loss and confusion. San gave his back a shove to urge him forward, but Wooyoung planted his feet in protest, the soles of his shoes digging against the rough pavement. San wasn’t having it, grinding his knuckles against the entry wound in Wooyoung’s back until he cried out in pain. 

“Walk, hybrid. I’m not in the mood for games,” San growled. 

_Hybrid_. 

Another sting in his chest.

“Don’t call me that!” Wooyoung’s voice shook, though more from betrayal than anger.

“What, you prefer ‘bloodsucker’ or something?” San sneered. 

“Don’t you remember me? _Look_ at me, San, please!” Wooyoung begged, craning his neck to look at San’s face. 

“Yeah, I remember you. You got away from me at that club a few weeks ago. We lost two good men that night, thanks to that little stunt you pulled. I’m not feeling particularly forgiving.”

“Wait, no, that was—” _Months_ ago. What the hell was going on?

“Keep walking. I’m not in the mood.” 

“San, _please!”_

“Quiet—unless you want a second hole in your chest. I’d be happy to deliver.”

“San, wait, I—” Wooyoung met his cold stare, tears welling in his eyes. “I—I love you, _please_ don’t do this, please!” His voice was small in his throat, just a broken whisper above the roar of the pounding rain. 

San outright laughed. 

He told San he loved him, and he laughed. 

“You’re disgusting. Why would I ever love a _hybrid?”_ San sneered, every syllable saturated with contempt. 

Wooyoung felt like his heart had just been ripped from his chest, an oozing, gaping hole where it once was. 

_Disgusting_. 

“San, please, baby—”

 _You called me ‘baby’ just now. I kinda… I kinda liked it_ , San had said, curled up in Wooyoung’s arms, cheeks adorably flushed after the pet name had Freudian slipped right out of Wooyoung’s mouth. His favorite memory of San, if he had to pick just one.

“Don’t call me that,” San snapped, rubbing salt in the wound. “What the hell are you playing at, hybrid? You trying to piss me off?”

“I—”

“Shut it. 

“Wait— 

“I said _shut it_ ,” San snarled, and Wooyoung felt the barrel of a gun digging against the wound in his back. “You don’t speak to me, hybrid. Got it? I don’t give a shit if you make it to Confinement alive or dead.”

The tears welling in Wooyoung’s eyes spilled over, trailing down his cheeks with the rain dripping from his hair. 

It didn’t make any sense. 

This person—whoever it was—wasn’t San. 

“What the hell is the matter with you?” Wooyoung spat, reeling with a sharp twist that wrenched his arms free of San’s hold. “You know who I am! Stop acting like you don’t! You—”

San smiled, the barrel of his gun against Wooyoung’s chest. “What did I just say?” 

He squeezed the trigger with a _bang._

  


  


Wooyoung woke with a start, his heart pounding and sweat coating his skin, his clothes clinging uncomfortably to his body. He felt shaken to the core, the gunshot still ringing in his mind, and his heart aching from the coldness of San’s glare. 

_What the hell was that?_

Wooyoung touched his chest, the bullet wound noticeably absent. It was just a dream, after all, but it seemed so damn real that he felt the urge to check. He sat up on the couch, where he’d apparently fallen asleep. His head was in a fog, and he felt strangely lethargic, disoriented like he’d slept for days on end. 

“Hey, you up?” a voice called. 

Wooyoung turned to see Yeonjun hunched over in one of the kitchen barstools, the sound of deft fingers typing away on a keyboard ceasing the moment Wooyoung sat up. Yeonjun spun around, his look of irritation fading into concern as they locked eyes. 

“Ugh,” Wooyoung groaned in response, running a hand through his sweaty hair. “I guess.”

“Are you ok?” 

“Huh?” Wooyoung’s eyes were wet, he realized, and quickly wiped at them with the hem of his sleeve. “Yeah. Just a dream,” he said dismissively, clearing his throat. 

“Hm, could be a side effect, maybe,” Yeonjun mused. “How do you feel?”

He was sweating like a pig, and the lights in the room seared his eyes like he’d just stepped out into the sunlight. There was an awful, lingering taste in his mouth like he’d licked a dirty oil pan, making him wince and swallow thickly. Agreeing to be Yeonjun’s guinea pig really took its toll, and each failed formula seemed to make him feel worse than the last. 

_Agreeing_ to be a guinea pig wasn’t exactly right, though. He didn’t have much of a choice, since their little science project was top secret, not to mention this was all Wooyoung’s fault for not blowing up the lab and getting the hell out of town while he still had the chance. It was the least he could do, given that Yeonjun came back from his vacation abroad to help with their mission. He’d fled the country for his own safety, and he wasn’t too happy about having to come back, but whipping up a new batch of V2—now V3—in as little time as possible was too good a challenge to pass up.

“Like shit,” Wooyoung grumbled, squinting his eyes to keep out the light. “Any breakthroughs?” 

Yeonjun sighed, spinning around in the barstool to face his laptop. He ripped his glasses off his face and tossed them on the kitchen counter, clattering over a pile of loose papers and ballpoint pens. They were just for show anyway, it wasn’t like he needed corrective lenses. He scrubbed a hand over his face with a long, frustrated groan. 

“Nope. I feel like I’m losing my damn mind. I know I’ve done it before, but without my notes it’s practically fucking impossible. Ratios, formulas, all gone. I’m just spitballing until something finally sticks, here.” Yeonjun gave an exasperated gesture into the air, like he was cursing the gods of chemistry. 

There was a crash and a yell as Hongjoong entered the kitchen and immediately knocked his elbow against a box that was hanging somewhat off the counter, sending plastic microcentrifuge tubes clattering across the floor. 

“Agh, god damn it!” Hongjoong cursed, hopping around in pain as tubes crunched underneath his socked feet. 

“Hey, watch it!” Yeonjun complained, scrambling to pick them up like they were his precious children. 

“I can’t walk two steps in here without _something_ making a mess. I can’t even see the fucking counter anymore!” Hongjoong made no effort to help Yeonjun pick the tubes up from the floor, instead stepping carefully over the wreckage to retrieve a box of frozen macaroni from the freezer. 

“It’s not my fault _someone_ burned down my lab!” Yeonjun shot a passive aggressive glance to Wooyoung.

“Why am I at fault here? You’re the one who made the bombs,” Wooyoung grumbled, nestling back into the pile of blankets on the couch. He felt like crap from whatever Yeonjun had given him, and he wasn’t really in the mood to argue.

Hongjoong angrily tore the box open and tossed the plastic tray full of frozen, artificially colored noodles in the microwave. “Is any of this shit even safe to be around food?” Hongjoong picked up a plastic bottle of something clear among the many that lay strewn across the kitchen island. “Formalin? In the kitchen? Are you trying to poison me?”

“Relax, I’m using the stove vent to clear the fumes. You could always take the microwave into your room, you know. It doesn’t need to be out here.”

“It’s in the kitchen! Where it belongs! In _my_ kitchen, actually, which has somehow turned into a lab. Excuse me for being a human who has to, y’know, _eat_.”

“All you eat are frozen dinners, I would hardly call that food. When’s the last time you used the kitchen to actually cook something?” 

“The microwave counts as cooking!”

“How?”

“You’re both geeks, shouldn’t you get along?” Wooyoung asked diplomatically. He was getting sick of listening to them argue. 

The bunker was in a constant state of chaos as of late, between all the new additions living there and Yeonjun having completely commandeered the kitchen by turning it into a makeshift laboratory. Wooyoung had claimed his old room at the end of the hall, while Yeosang claimed the one next door, opting to stay in the bunker for the time being as opposed to travelling across town all the time. Val—Hwasa, after having abandoned her alias while in hiding—was also living there since the Ruby was exposed, but there was no subtlety in the way she spent more time in Yeosang’s room than her own. 

Yeonjun wasn’t a resident at the bunker, technically, but he crashed on the couch six out of seven days a week while working tirelessly on his formula. Outnumbered by hybrids three to two, the humans were in a constant state of annoyance at having to tiptoe around beakers full of chemicals and other miscellanea that clogged up precious kitchen space. There was a massive centrifuge that easily took up half the counter, as well as microscopes and laptops and papers piled high, and Yeonjun got pissy when anyone so much as laid a finger on them. 

“Different types of geeks,” Yeonjun said absently as he focused on micropipetting fluid into a tube. “Wait, should I be offended?”

“What I do doesn’t involve me taking up the whole fucking kitchen,” Hongjoong grumbled. 

“Again, if _someone_ hadn’t burned down my lab—” 

Wooyoung made a noise of annoyance. “I bet you’re making the formulas worse just to punish me.” 

“I could do that. Actually, that’s not a bad idea.”

“Please don’t. I’m stretched thin as it is. The last thing I need is to start coughing up blood,” Wooyoung groaned. 

“ _You’re_ stretched thin? How do you think I feel? You’re working me to the bone here,” Yeonjun complained. 

“My boss is a hard ass, give me a break.” Wooyoung scrubbed a hand over his face in annoyance. The lights were too bright, and just wanted everyone to shut up. 

The others didn’t know exactly _what_ it was he did for Zico, and he left the details intentionally vague. Wooyoung spent a good deal of his time working, and every scrap of free time outside of being Zico’s dog or Yeonjun’s guinea pig was spent building his network, recruiting every hybrid he could get his hands on to join his cause. Not just hybrids, but humans as well—anyone with a grudge against authority looking to fan the flames of an insurrection. 

Seonghwa had a surprising number of hybrid connections, despite not being active in the sol market. He worked as a team with Hongjoong, who used his unparalleled hacking skills to partake in digital robbery, wiring money into an untraceable account, while Seonghwa used the money to hire gangs as mercenaries for their cause, going after sex traffickers and sleazeballs that the government couldn’t (or wouldn’t) get their hands on. Seonghwa’s connections all across the city were proving quite valuable in their time of need, with many hybrids willing to lend a hand to their mission.

Wooyoung ran a hand through his hair, and Yeonjun’s eyes followed the motion, lingering curiously on his tattoo. 

“Did getting that hurt?” Yeonjun asked, spinning around in the stool. 

Wooyoung held his right hand up, examining the lines of ink under his skin. A clown mask with a wicked smile on its face, eyes scrunched with laughter and struck through with vertical marks that looked more like scars than paint. A smear of black acted as the backdrop, like the mask was emerging from a thick, dark fog. It was unsettling, more akin to a horror movie monster than something from a child’s birthday party. It was the trademark of Red Tiger, though Zico never explained what it meant. 

“Like a bitch. They put silver in the ink to make it stay,” Wooyoung explained. 

Yeonjun frowned, tilting his head a few degrees. “Silver?”

“Yeah, the liquid kind, I forget what it’s called, though.”

“Colloidal silver?” Yeonjun offered. 

“Yeah, that.”

“I… guess that makes sense, but we’re not sensitive to silver like full vampires are.” Yeonjun eyed the tattoo like it was a puzzle he was trying to decipher. 

Wooyoung shrugged. “Yeah, the ink probably won’t last forever, but if it’s trapped under the skin it’ll take ages to heal. My boss said for a hybrid it’ll fade in a couple years, if he had to guess. It still stings like hell though. I wonder if the pain ever goes away.” It burned constantly if he thought about it, so he tried not to. 

“Huh, interesting. So silver bullets don’t do any more damage to us than regular bullets, despite supposedly hurting more, but dissolved into a liquid it slows healing? Would a silver bullet take longer to heal if it didn’t exit the body?”

“Do you think I’ve _ever_ been shot with a silver bullet?” Wooyoung huffed. Just because Wooyoung had a tattoo didn’t suddenly mean he was an expert on hybrid anatomy. 

“I don’t know, have you?”

“Pfft, no.”

“Just curious. Huh, so what would happen if—” Yeonjun suddenly cut himself off, leaping up from his barstool to rummage around his tornado of papers littering the kitchen counter. He furiously shuffled his stack of notes around, yanking up a sheet of paper so suddenly it knocked a beaker off balance and sent it rolling across the counter, tipping off the edge and shattering on the floor, accompanied by an indignant scream from both Hongjoong and Seoonghwa, who had arrived just in time to see the kitchen break out into apparent chaos. 

The microwave _dinged_ almost comically as the three of them screamed at each other, a loud, frustrated sigh escaping Yeonjun’s lips as he dropped to the floor to scoop up bits of broken glass. Wooyoung threw the blankets off with an exasperated sound, rising from the couch in search of a new, quieter place to rest. Wooyoung marched down the hall toward his room, vaguely registering the sound of footsteps following him over all the background noise. 

“Wait, Wooyoung,” Seonghwa said, halting Wooyoung with a hand on his elbow. Wooyoung turned slowly, reluctant to meet his gaze. “Whose is it?” 

Wooyoung frowned. “What?”

“You come back smelling like blood every day. On your clothes, your shoes. Whose is it?”

“I have a donor,” Wooyoung lied. 

“Don’t give me that. It’s always someone different, I know you don’t have a donor.”

As a first generation hybrid, Seonghwa had the best nose out of all of them. Yeosang was also a first gen, but Seonghwa seemed to be especially in tune with his senses. Wooyoung was far from being in the mood to have this conversation. 

“Don’t worry about it,” Wooyoung dismissed, trying to slip away into his room, but Seonghwa planted his hand against the wall to stop him.

“How the hell am I _not_ supposed to worry? I don’t like whatever this is you’ve gotten yourself into.”

“You’re not supposed to like it. I’m just doing what I have to.”

“I get that, but—”

“But what? You think I have a choice?”

“I think you’re taking things too far. I don’t know what it is he’s making you do, but—”

“What am I supposed to do? Let San rot in there for the rest of his life? He’s in there because of _me_ , Seonghwa! I can’t even fucking think, let alone sleep. It’s killing me.”

When he did sleep, it was usually thanks to Yeonjun’s drug experiments knocking him out, or thanks to a fifth of vodka in his stomach. He never felt rested. It felt like he was being eaten away from the inside, the anxiety gnawing at him growing worse with each passing day. San was suffering, he was sure of that, and all he could do was twiddle his thumbs until Yeonjun perfected his V3 formula. It was hell, and he could feel his sanity wane like grains of sand between his fingertips. 

The noise in his mind was a constant rattle of San’s name, San’s face, San’s smile, San’s touch, San’s laugh, San, San, _San_. Sometimes, as he tried to force himself to sleep, he imagined San screaming in agony, suffering at the hands of faceless, unknown figures, and the rage in his chest burned away any hope of rest. The less sleep he got, the more his anxiety spiked, trapping him in a vicious cycle that cut his fuse shorter than ever.

Wooyoung no longer hesitated when carrying out Zico’s orders. Hell, it was almost therapeutic, and he made a habit of snagging a type B for himself when he was out. Draining his victims was a way to let off some steam, a way to temporarily ease the constant current of anxiety buzzing under his skin and the ache in his heart, filling him with a rush that was almost like a high. It was a high, come to think of it—euphoria washing over him as his prey squirmed, terrified in his clutches and unable to escape. He reveled in the way the victim’s heart would speed up, faster, faster, pounding wildly until the moment it stopped, the pulse of the artery going still against his lips. 

He’d gotten a taste of it, and it was becoming an addiction. 

Seonghwa’s eyes shone with empathy, though brimming with concern. “You’re acting like somebody else.” 

“How am I supposed to act?” Wooyoung breathed in exasperation. “Am I just supposed to sit here? I’m trying to help!”

“So am I, but—”

“Then what’s the problem? Why are you coming after me?” Wooyoung tried again to shove past Seonghwa, but he didn’t budge. 

“You’re _obsessed_ with him, Wooyoung!” Seonghwa practically yelled. Wooyoung scoffed, shaking his head. “This isn’t normal. You’re acting way out of line.” 

“Yeah, right, because I don’t want someone I care about to be tortured to death?” Wooyoung snarled. 

“I get that, but that doesn’t mean there aren’t lines that shouldn’t be crossed!” Seonghwa lowered his voice, shooting a glance down the hall like he didn’t want the others to hear. 

“What lines did I cross?” Wooyoung demanded, meeting Seonghwa’s stare, challenging him to answer. 

Wooyoung knew he was bluffing. He knew exactly which lines he’d crossed, and exactly the moments he’d crossed them, but odds were that Seonghwa didn’t. He knew Wooyoung was involved in something shady—they all did—but it was a mystery as to what. 

They didn’t know he spent countless nights charming and seducing women into coming back to Zico’s bar with him, or dragging them there by force if they wouldn’t comply. They didn’t know about the witnesses he killed. They didn’t know he’d taken to drinking from unwilling participants, toying with them to spike their adrenaline, sometimes bordering on torture when he got a little carried away. They didn’t know how quickly he’d grown accustomed to the feeling of killing, or how quickly he’d grown to like it. 

It was easy, once he let his vampire instincts take over. Just as Zico had said—

 _Trust me, you’ll grow to love it soon enough_. 

‘Soon’ was a bit of an understatement. It was immediate—the first time he bled a victim dry of his own will catalyzed something inside of him. Something dark, _hungry_. Instead of fighting it, he succumbed to it, letting it guide his hand in kill after kill, dragging him down a rabbit hole with no way of climbing back out. He used to kill in self-defence, or at least only when necessary, but now it was an _urge_. Wooyoung craved the taste of that final heartbeat, richer and more intoxicating than any fine wine ever to grace his tongue. 

Wooyoung knew which lines he’d crossed, he just didn’t _care_. 

Seonghwa gaped at him, his eyebrows pinched as he fought for what to say. He searched Wooyoung’s gaze for a moment, before Wooyoung pushed through, leaving him to stand in the hall in silence. 

“That’s what I thought,” Wooyoung said without looking back.

As Wooyoung left through the church, he caught the faint scent of tobacco in the air. He looked out over the rows of charred wooden pews, moonlit from the gaping hole in the ceiling where fire had eaten away at it, the cherry of a lit cigarette glowing orange in the darkness. The shattered stained glass windows threw flecks of color across the walls and the floor, dancing like fireflies among the ruins. Hwasa sat in one of the pews, tendrils of smoke blowing from her lips as he looked up at the sky. Wooyoung opened his mouth to chastise her for smoking in a place of worship, but stopped when he heard her voice. 

“I used to be religious,” she said wistfully, as if speaking of a past life. 

Wooyoung stepped down the aisle, his shoes crunching over bits of glass and rubble left behind in the wreckage. “Christian?” 

“Catholic. My mom used to teach at a Sunday school before it burned. I had a favorite Bible verse and everything.”

“What was it?” 

She laughed. “Can’t remember.” 

Wooyoung ran his hand along the back of a pew, the smooth curvature of the wood fitting neatly under his palm. It was one of the few that wasn’t blackened in the fire, though still weathered with age. The church must have been beautiful before the fire, Wooyoung often thought, though it still had a certain elegance to it even through all of the damage it had endured. 

It was ironic, in a sense, that a bunch of vampires would be living in the basement. Half-vampires, at least, not that he’d even been a believer while human. A bunch of monsters making their home in a derelict place of worship could easily be used as some type of metaphor. Seonghwa sure had a sense of style when choosing a place to live. 

Wooyoung hummed, sliding into the pew next to Hwasa. “Now I lay me down to sleep, pray the lord my soul to keep…” 

Hwasa laughed, shaking her head. “Doesn’t count if you stole it from Enter Sandman,” she mumbled around her cigarette. 

“Hey, it’s the only prayer I know,” Wooyoung shrugged. “Y’know, sometimes I wonder if I’d burst into flames if I walked into a church.”

“We’re in one, and you seem fine.”

“This one doesn’t seem all that holy,” he argued. 

Hwasa took a long drag from her cigarette, tilting her head back to stare at the sky. It was a cloudy night, the moon’s light veiled by thick clouds as they crawled across the night, unhurried in their passing. She blew a lungful of smoke into the air, away from Wooyoung. 

“Sorry, I know you don’t like it,” Hwasa apologized, moving her cigarette to her other hand to distance it. 

“It’s cool, don’t worry about it.”

They sat in silence like that for a while, the stillness of the night punctuated with the occasional sound of a breath being exhaled. It was chilly, though the wind was calm, and the moonlight somehow made it feel colder. Something about Hwasa’s presence was almost soothing, like a raven perched on a steeple, a casual observer over those down below. Not judging, just watching, taking life as it comes between puffs of smoke. 

Wooyoung broke the silence eventually, crossing his arms over his chest as he leaned back against the pew. 

“Do you believe in hell?” he asked. 

Hwasa shrugged. “I try not to, I guess.” 

“Why? You haven’t done anything wrong.” 

Hwasa scoffed around her cigarette. “If only that were true.” 

“Oh yeah? What are you going to hell for?”

She took another long drag, tendrils of smoke spilling from her lips as she thought. She kept her gaze up at the moon. “I killed my ex boyfriend.” 

Wooyoung’s eyebrows raised in mild surprise. “Really?”

“I didn’t really mean to. He pushed me around a lot, but I never really did anything about it. We were both really drunk one night, and we got into a huge fight. He put his hands on me and I just lost it. I grabbed his gun from the drawer and shot him in the face.”

“That sounds like you meant to do it.”

“Yeah, but I hadn’t planned on it. It was a crime of passion. That’s why I left home, because it was obvious I was the one who did it.” 

“Sounds like he deserved it, though.” 

“It’s still murder. When I got taken by that gang, I thought it was god punishing me.”

“You don’t think so anymore?” 

“I think I believe more in fate nowadays.” She paused for a few beats, then laughed. “You know why I picked Val as my new name?”

“You never told me.”

“It was the name of my favorite burger joint back home. Val’s Diner.”

“Do you miss it?” 

A few heartbeats passed before she spoke. “Nah.”

She rolled the cigarette butt between her fingers, the last bits of ash falling to the charred floor by their feet. She tossed it aside, then let her head fall onto Wooyoung’s shoulder. She shivered, and he wrapped an arm around her shoulders, watching the way the clouds covered and uncovered the moon in gentle wisps. 

“What about you, what are you going to hell for?” she wondered. 

Wooyoung gave a soft sigh through his nose. The silver in his tattoo ink burned, an ever present reminder of his sins right under his skin. 

“A lot.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> san where are u. idk where he went
> 
> hongjoong only eating frozen dinners is me self-inserting
> 
> twitter & tumblr @ yungwooyoung
> 
> fic playlist that goes hard as fuck [here!!](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/5eGeySTdOkbL7GnwxifYW7?si=Srtv7kQNSbyvS_ZwvoA6hg)


	25. it's in the past

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> i have too many wips pls save me from myself
> 
> warnings for this ch: 
> 
> sleep deprivation, electric shock, mild psychosis, graphic fantasies of violence (super graphic, like yikes-level), sexuality crisis, mentions of underage drinking/drug use
> 
> "that made my femurs feel weird" -my roommate after reading this so be warned i guess lol

“Oh, shit! Go, go, go!” Mingi slapped San on the back to get his attention. “It’s the cops!”

“Oh, fuck!” Yunho laughed, nearly tripping over his own feet as he drunkenly spun around, scanning the room over the sea of heads crammed into the house like sardines. People were screaming like it was the end of the world as police flashlights pierced the crowd, blocking off the front door as they shoved through. 

San could feel blood tickling his upper lip, oozing warmth over his alcohol-heated skin, but he didn’t have time to assess the damage. Yunho and Mingi were dragging him by the shirt out the back door, shoving through to the backyard to make their escape. San could hear his girlfriend’s voice shouting after him— _ex_ girlfriend, now—above the chaos, but it faded into the ambience of the party the further they got from its epicenter. 

Fresh air hit his face as they burst out onto the back patio, shrieks of _cops, cops!_ hitting his ears from all sides over the sound of police sirens in an overly dramatic, drunken cacophony of voices. Flashlight beams crept up from along the sides of the house, circling from every entrance as they tried to control the flow of people. It was chaos, and San briefly lost his footing as someone else knocked into his shoulder in their attempt to flee the party. 

“This way!” Yunho barked, hurtling toward the fence on the property’s perimeter. 

San nearly slipped in the grass as he ran, stumbling as the toe of his sneaker knocked against an empty beer can and went flying. The air was sweet with the scent of weed and grape-flavored blunt wrappers, tickling his nose before a cool breeze washed it away into nothing. Mingi’s cackling was loud enough to be heard above the noise, breathless as they stumbled toward the fence, hardly a moment’s hesitation before he was hooking his fingers into the chain-links and swinging a long leg up over the top. 

Yunho followed suit, nearly kicking San in the face as he swung his body over the fence, the metal trembling with a shrill rattle underneath his weight. San was almost worried it would collapse, but it held strong, and Yunho landed safely on the other side with a heavy _thump_. 

“Come on, shortie! Think you can make it?” Yunho teased.

“Shut the fuck up!” San laughed, clamping his hands around the top bar. He hissed at the sting in his hand, his knuckles bleeding and already starting to bruise, but he ignored the pain in favor of his mission. “I’m five foot ten, asshole!” he grunted, hiking his leg up and throwing himself over. 

He didn’t quite stick the landing, stumbling a bit as his feet hit the slippery grass, and Yunho had to catch him before he could eat shit. San shook out his sore hand, jogging after the others as they took off through the neighbors yard, clumsily shoving through a tangle of shrubbery and making a beeline for the road. 

“You know, it’s good practice,” Mingi panted, slowing down to catch his breath. “Jumping over fences and shit.”

“Is that what you’re gonna say if you get caught? You’re just practicing hopping fences for when you get into the police academy?” San laughed, bracing his hands on his knees as he heaved for breath. 

“Think they’d let me off?”

“Pfft, yeah, with an MIP,” Yunho scoffed. 

“What’s an MIP?” San asked with a frown. 

“Minor in possession, stupid. How do you not know that?” Mingi shot him a look of faux disappointment, shaking his head.

“Sorry, I’m not a delinquent like some of us here.” San narrowed his eyes at both of them, cracking a smile. Yunho and Mingi had a reputation for being a couple of lunatics, always trying to one-up each other with crazy dares and wild shenanigans. San was often involved, but his status as captain of the lacrosse team meant he had to keep his image somewhat clean. 

“No idea what you mean,” Mingi said with a sly grin. 

San scoffed. “Weren’t you tripping in gym class on Thursday?” 

“Almost.”

“Like, you _almost_ did mushrooms, or you _almost_ went to class?” 

“We ate them, then got so scared we hid in the locker room,” Yunho clarified. 

“Coach is scary. The wrinkles in his forehead looked like an extra face.” Mingi shuddered in remembrance. 

San burst out laughing, falling to his hands and knees on the road, succumbing to the tipsy exhaustion creeping into his bones. Hopping the fence and running for their lives had sobered him up quite a bit, but not completely. Yunho smacked him on the back, hard, eliciting an indignant _ow._

“Get up, get up,” Yunho whined, punctuating each word with a slap. “You can’t sleep on the road.”

“Why not,” San argued, breathless from laughter, clutching his aching ribs. 

“There’s a park in a couple blocks,” Mingi suggested, walking backwards down the street. “I brought my piece so we can smoke. I’m sober as fuck after all that.”

“Same.” San pulled himself off the pavement with a dramatic groan. 

Yunho made a sound of disbelief. “There’s no way. You took, like, eight shots of tequila.” Yunho kicked him in the butt, making him stumble forward. It took effort to steady himself, so yeah, maybe he was still a little drunk. Just not _as_ drunk. He’d been pretty wasted, for a second there. Hazy memories of his fist slamming into someone’s face came trickling back into his head. Shit, what a night. 

“Fine, I’m still drunk. Will you carry me?” San pouted, making dramatic grabby-hands at Yunho and playing up his drunken stagger for show. 

“Hell no! I’m not about that gay shit!” Yunho protested, cracking a smile as he gave San a playful shove. It was clearly a joke, but it still stung. 

_Just a joke_. 

“Sure you’re not, fruitcake,” San brushed it off with a laugh, but made something stir inside his stomach, a type of nausea that the tequila had nothing to do with. 

San was still… in the closet, so to speak. 

Well, he wasn’t exactly sure what the hell was going on, but what he did know was that he’d started wishing his girlfriend had a cock at some point. Not that sleeping with her was _bad_ or anything, just… meh. She was gorgeous—stunning, even—and half the dudes at his school would kill to be in his position, but something just wasn’t doing it for him. And that _something_ was causing him a whole lot of grief.

San had been dating Eunbi for over a year now, so suddenly coming out as gay didn’t really feel like an option. There wasn’t anything wrong with her—in every sense of the word, she was perfect—but San just couldn’t keep faking interest anymore. He’d started feeling trapped somewhere along the way, and it was obvious she could tell something had changed. However, she’d taken San’s growing lack of interest to mean that he was definitely, one hundred percent cheating on her. 

He denied it—obviously, because he wasn’t cheating—but she took it as a bald-faced lie, and decided to hook up with one of the football team guys at tonight’s party to get back at him. San didn’t give a shit, honestly—and was actually relieved that he could finally get rid of her—but for some damn reason he decided to fake being mad, and ended up smashing the poor guy’s nose in, but not before the guy landed a good blow on him as well, earning a split lip and probably a black eye. It was a mystery why he’d even chosen to do it at all. 

Maybe it was to cover his ass, or maybe because he _was_ mad, just not at Eunbi or the dude she fucked. He was mad at the whole damn situation, and for being such a coward about it. It would have looked stranger if he wasn’t mad at all, and he didn’t want people thinking he was some kind of pushover. 

_Or gay_ , that unhelpful little voice whispered. 

At least he didn’t have to make up an excuse for dumping his hot girlfriend. 

Yunho wasn’t homophobic or anything, and neither was Mingi, but the idea of coming clean about his sexuality made San’s stomach twist with anxiety. He wasn’t even sure what he was so scared of—it’s not like it would change anything between their friend group. More likely than not, things would stay exactly the way they were. 

Right?

Yunho had a girlfriend, and Mingi had a chick he was kind of hooking up with off and on, so it’s not like things would suddenly be weird if he came out. 

No— _everything_ would be weird. San had a reputation for being the super ultra straight captain of the lacrosse team, and pretty much the last person anyone would expect to suddenly come out as gay. Minus that time he’d made out with one of the guys on his team at a party as part of a dare, which was arguably the catalyst for his current sexuality crisis. He’d ended up liking it way too much, which only confirmed his suspicions that girls weren’t really his thing. 

Ugh, he wished his buzz hadn’t worn off so much. 

Mingi packed his bowl while they made their way to the park, laughing at Yunho’s ridiculous story about slipping in dog shit and tumbling down a flight of stairs while tripping off shrooms. He had a lot of shroom related stories, apparently. San didn’t typically stray from weed and booze, though he had tried molly once and nearly got naked in the middle of a golf course during a particularly wild juicer. Luckily, his friends managed to keep his clothes on his body. 

The grass was wet with chilly night time dew, so they decided to set up camp on the tennis court, slipping through the entrance with the sign that had been vandalized to read “PENIS COURT” with one of the Ns having been blacked out with marker. Classic. 

“Hah, penis court,” Mingi giggled to himself, swinging the chain link gate behind himself with an ear-grating _creak_. Yunho snickered, dropping his backpack to the ground with an unexpectedly heavy noise. 

“Oh, shit! Forgot I had this,” Yunho said in pleasant surprise as he slipped a can of Four Loko out of the big zipper pocket. 

“Where’d you even get that?” San plopped down next to him, ass-bones digging somewhat uncomfortably into the hardcourt. It was no tempur-pedic, but his drunk ass was just glad to finally have a place to sit. It had been a wild night, and he desperately needed to unwind with a hearty bowl of something dank. Mingi always had the top-shelf shit thanks to his cousin being a trimmer, something San had never been more grateful for than in that moment in time. 

“That kid with the weird haircut stole one for me in exchange for a dimebag. I think he used to have a fake, but it got taken or something,” Yunho explained as he cracked it open and took a long swig. The scent of artificial citrus wafted over to San’s nose in the cool breeze. 

San snatched it from him and started chugging, wiggling away from Yunho as he attempted to take it back with an incredulous whine. “You’re awfully lax spilling your dirt to two future cops, y’know. I have years worth of blackm— _ow!”_ San cut himself off as Yunho jabbed a finger into his rib. 

Yunho used San’s moment of recovery to reclaim his drink. “Mingi’s way worse than I am,” he argued, muffled against the rim of the can. “I’m surprised he hasn’t been suspended yet.”

“I’ll have experience, though. Like how shoplifters know how to catch people stealing. It’s ‘cause they know all the tricks.” Mingi lifted his pipe to his lips, flicking his lighter and inhaling an impressive hit off the fresh greens. 

“You shoplift now, too? Dang, you’re really covering all your bases,” San laughed, rubbing at the sore spot on his rips where Yunho poked him with one of his abnormally long fingers. 

“I mean, I stole that six-pack once, but I was already drunk when it happened. I’m just saying, you know how to catch people if you’ve been in their shoes,” Mingi shrugged, puffing out a huge cloud with barely a hint of a cough. 

“You’d be perfect, then, Yunnie,” San teased as he took the pipe. He flicked the lighter, then hissed at the sting in his hand. He held it up to examine the damage, finding that his knuckles had already started to swell. His nose had stopped bleeding, but the citrus in the Four Loko stung, helpfully reminding San of his split lip. He could already sense he’d be sporting a shiner in the morning, too.

“Me? A cop? Hell no! I bet they drug test,” Yunho dismissed with a bark of a laugh. 

“Dude, tell me about it. I’m dreading having to quit,” Mingi groaned. “I can’t even imagine you holding a gun. I can’t even imagine San holding a gun, honestly. He’s too nice.”

“ _I’m_ too nice?” San gawked. “I just beat a dude into the floor, like, half an hour ago.” He shook out his sore hand, then went back to lighting up.

“Yeah, but he fucked your girlfriend. He deserved it. What a bitch, honestly. Were you guys fighting or something?” Yunho frowned. 

San scoffed, coughing as he exhaled a cloud of smoke. “She thought I was cheating on her.”

“What?” Mingi and Yunho gawked in unison. 

“You weren’t though, were you?” Mingi followed up.

“Nah. Not even sure what her evidence was, honestly.” San sighed, trying to seem a little upset about it, which he really, really wasn’t. 

It was a lie. San knew it was because he had slowly but surely developed a lack of interest in her, which was all the evidence she needed, apparently. He decided to keep that to himself, because who in their right mind would lose interest in someone as hot as Eunbi? They would surely put the pieces together that San was gay, and he wasn’t ready for that information to be public yet. Not even to his best friends. 

But, _god_ , it was killing him. 

He made up his mind—he would tell his parents. Tomorrow. 

After that, he would figure out how to tell his friends. It made his stomach twist with anxiety, but he hated keeping secrets from them more than anything, especially Yunho, who—once upon a time—he’d had the teeniest, _tiniest_ little crush on. Yunho was attractive as hell, there was no denying it, but they’d been joined at the hip since they were little kids, and San would rather die than confess his obviously one-sided barely-existent non-platonic feelings for him. It wasn’t even a thing anymore, honestly. Or so he liked to tell himself. 

Yunho was Mr. Straight-Straight—like, eats-pussy-for-breakfast straight. Then again, people thought that about San, too, but that was different. San knew Yunho like the back of his hand, and he knew he would never reciprocate his… whatever. He didn’t even want to call it a crush, because it wasn’t. It was just a _thing_ he would shove in a box and never open again. Yep, problem solved. Problem? What problem?

Well, there was still that whole coming-out-problem, but he’d solve that one another day. 

“Are you okay, man?” Yunho asked, placing a hand on San’s shoulder in a way that only made him feel more not-okay. 

San nodded and took another hit off the pipe, letting the warmth of his high quiet his mind and dissolve some of the anxiety swirling around in his stomach. He passed the pipe to Yunho with a tight smile. “Yeah, I’m over it. It’s in the past now.” 

Yunho grinned. “Aw, Sannie, so mature,” he teased, giving San’s shoulder a shake. 

San tried to ignore the way his heart fluttered ever-so-slightly. 

“Shut up.”

  


  


San woke up to the sound of the doorbell, shrill and unpleasant in his hungover skull. Who the fuck was at his door on a Sunday morning? His parents must have had to cover shifts at the hospital, judging by the way both of their cars were still gone by the time he’d gotten home. Still, shouldn’t they have been home by now? The doorbell rang again. Jehovah’s Witnesses would have left after the first attempt, so it was probably one of the neighbors trying to tell him his cat got out. 

He groaned, climbing over a KO’d Yunho, who’d crashed in his bed with him as per usual after a night out. He barely stirred when San accidentally kneed him in the ass, grumbling out some disgruntled nonsense before going right back to sleep. San tumbled out of bed, limbs heavy as he lumbered down the stairs to the door. He tried to smooth out some of the cowlicks in his hair as he leaned down to look through the peep-hole. 

His heart dropped to the floor as he saw two uniformed cops standing at his doorstep, a cruiser parked out front by the curb. 

San’s first thought was that it had something to do with his fight. Was the guy going to press charges? San was a minor, and he’d been drunk at the time, but an assault charge on his record would surely throw a wrench in his ability to get into the police academy. His heartbeat picked up immediately as worst-case-scenario thoughts began to flood his mind. Oh god, what would his parents think? He promised his dad he’d keep his anger under control—yet here he’d gone and fucked it all up. 

Taking a deep breath, he cracked open the door. 

“Are you Choi San? We need to talk to you, is it alright if we come in?”

Talk to him, specifically? 

Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck. They were going to press charges. 

“U-um, yeah. Come in.” San stepped aside to let them in, and he could already feel his palms starting to sweat. They took their shoes off in the entryway, which indicated they planned on staying a while. 

“San, sit down. It’s about your parents,” one of them said, his expression neutral as he placed a hand on San’s back to guide him toward the couch. 

San’s blood turned to ice. 

“... Huh?”

San could still remember the day he lost his parents with aching clarity. 

It never faded, not really. Not even a little. Not even after a decade had passed. 

Thinking about it put a rock in his throat even after all these years, throbbing like a wound that never quite scarred over, or a broken bone deep within his flesh that hadn’t set right. The last night they’d been alive, he’d been out partying, trashed off cheap tequila and starting fights over nothing. His biggest fear at the time was getting kicked off the lacrosse team after word got around that he’d beaten the shit out of a fellow athlete. He’d dreaded telling his parents, dreaded the looks on their faces upon finding out he’d relapsed after finally getting his anger issues under control. 

San had been close with his parents, almost abnormally so. He chalked it up to being an only child—no siblings to confide in, which meant his mom and dad were the first ones he’d turn to in times of crisis. He remembered crying in his mother’s arms after his first bitter rejection at the ripe age of eight, when he’d poured his heart and soul into writing a song for a girl who didn’t give him the time of day. His mom took his heartbreak seriously, treating it like she would a real, adult breakup, curling up on the couch with him to watch cheesy movies while letting him eat chocolate ice cream straight from the tub. 

He remembered how his dad had scolded him in front of his middle school principal after he’d decked a kid for spraying Axe in his locker, before giving him a secret, proud high-five as soon as they’d left the office. He told San he was glad to have a kid with a “good bullshit detector” who knew how to stand up for himself, despite not condoning violence. They were both nurses, after all. “Don’t go creating more work for me at the hospital,” he’d told San afterwards, to which San had begrudgingly agreed. San’s fuse had been short ever since he was a kid, but he worked hard to keep his promise to his dad, keeping his anger in check to the best of his abilities. 

When San first started to question his sexuality—inklings here and there of _hang on, I think I might be gay_ —he promised himself he’d tell his parents before anyone else. It just felt right. After all, they knew him better than anyone else. Better than Yunho, even, who’d been his best friend in the world for years and years, and was practically their foster child by the time they’d entered high school. San had been itching to tell them, _dying_ to get it off his chest, but he never got the chance. He’d waited too long, and by the time he’d made up his mind, it was already too late. 

_“Are you Choi San? We need to talk to you, is it alright if we come in?”_

_“U-um, yeah. Come in.”_

_“San, sit down. It’s about your parents.”_

Too late. 

Too late, too late, too late.

The longer he spent in isolation, the more he regretted, and regretted, and regretted. 

San hadn’t thought about his parents so much in years. Every memory played in his mind in a back-to-back, endless loop, just like it had the spring of his senior year. This time, he was too exhausted to cry. He was too exhausted to do anything but curl up in his cell, slowly succumbing to the insanity creeping into his head like a slow-acting poison, his eyelids heavy but incapable of staying shut. 

What happened in the Box wasn’t torture.

 _This_ was torture. 

Agony—that he could handle. He could handle being shocked, beaten, whipped, burned, drowned, or force-fed maggots until he puked. He could handle knowing his friends had turned on him, throwing him to the dogs as they watched quietly from the sidelines. He could handle the humiliation of crying and begging for death while his colleagues laughed and mocked him. He could handle it. That was his mantra.

He couldn’t handle this. 

The collar around San’s neck sent a shock down his spine, forcing him back into awakeness. His bloodshot eyes throbbed in his skull, aching from hours upon hours upon hours of staring at the blank walls in front of him. He was sore down to his very bones, weary and weak from exhaustion. It felt as though every last drop of energy had been drained from his body, until he could barely even lift his head anymore. He was tired. So fucking tired. 

The first night wasn’t much different from any other night. San didn’t sleep much anyway. Sleeping only brought nightmares, but even the nightmares were starting to sound like heaven. 

The second night was misery. 

The third was hell. 

After that, he lost track of the days.

San could feel his mind coming unraveled, falling apart at the seams more and more with each passing hour—not that he could keep track of the hours anymore. He could only count the seconds—exactly sixty of them in between each shock delivered by the collar around his neck. It was his clock, the metronome that grounded him somewhat to reality, a flimsy crutch keeping him from breaking down entirely. For the first night, at least. 

The first night that the shocks started coming in sixty-second intervals he was able to count them, forming a clock in his mind, the hand ticking by in rotation each time he felt a jolt of electricity run through his body. It wasn't strong—nothing like the shocks he’d endured during active interrogations—but it was enough to keep him awake. He counted sixty times six, establishing that six hours had passed, before he started to lose track. 

The longer he lay awake in his cell, the harder it became to visualize the clock. After about twelve hours or so, his eyes started drifting shut on their own, only to fly open again when the collar hit sixty seconds, shocking him awake. His concept of time was nothing but a loose estimation, with no way of telling how long it had been or how many shocks he’d endured. Hundreds? Thousands? Tens of thousands? He couldn’t be sure. 

Passive interrogation—that’s what this was. When San didn’t crack after god knows how many hours of physical pain, they decided to try a different approach. 

Sleep deprivation. 

Something so simple, yet so excruciating that San almost missed having his fingernails torn off. Worse than pain, worse than starvation or thirst. It felt like his mind was eating itself, his head full of locusts that devoured his sanity with each passing second, decimating his ability to think clearly. He couldn’t even count seconds anymore—how long was a second? How many seconds were in an hour? How many hours were in a day?

He couldn’t remember. 

How long had he been in isolation? A week? A year? 

Hell, he could barely remember his own name anymore. 

But the memories of his parents—the ones he’d rather _not_ remember—still rang loud and clear in his mind, like they’d happened only moments ago.

Voices that weren’t his own echoed against the walls of his mind, whispering, jeering, teasing, laughing at him in an endless cacophony until his grip on reality had withered into near extinction. Shadows danced on the walls despite the blinding, buzzing lights overhead, crawling in his peripheral, stalking him like lions in the tall grass. 

Never in his life had he felt so helpless. 

San screamed and begged until his throat no longer produced sound, scratching at the padded walls of his cell with non-existent fingernails, the crusted tips of his wounded fingers smearing long streaks of blood against the blinding, suffocating white. He tore at his hair and clawed at his flesh, digging his blunt fingers into his face as if to peel his skin right off of his skull, but it was futile, helpless as a declawed cat. San just wanted it to be over. 

“Kill me.” 

The only words still left on his tongue, the only lucid thought that remained. 

“Kill me, kill me, kill me… ” San chanted endlessly, but no one was listening. No one who cared, anyway. He knocked his head against the wall over, and over, and over, but it was too soft to give him the concussion he wanted. 

Trapped and unable to sleep, all he could do was think. 

Think, think, think. 

He thought about Wooyoung a lot. He thought about trying to forget Wooyoung, to erase him from his memories, if such a thing were possible. He thought about trying to resent Wooyoung for making San love him to the point of insanity. Instead, though, he could only resent himself for letting it happen. San resented himself for every moment that led up to this, beginning with the very moment he’d shot Wooyoung in the leg. If only he’d missed that shot, then Wooyoung would have escaped, and San’s fate wouldn’t be irreparably tied to the hybrid he’d failed to arrest. The only thing he _didn’t_ resent himself for was saving Wooyoung’s life, and he resented the fact that he didn’t resent it. 

He thought about what Wooyoung would have been like as a human. He thought about what it would have been like to meet Wooyoung at a college party, just two drunk humans whose worries all revolved around declaring majors and bombing exams. He imagined Wooyoung dressed in a red hoodie indicative of their university, beer in hand, laughing with some friends while San worked up the courage to go talk to him. He was stunning, after all—San would have been nervous for sure. 

It was a ridiculous thing to think, but San couldn’t help it. Hell, Wooyoung hadn’t even gone to college. There’s no way they could have ever met.

He fantasized about a world in which they weren’t required to hate each other on principle. Would they have clicked right away? What kinds of things would they talk about, if not drug gangs and their favorite firearms? Would San be able to make him laugh just the same? He liked to think so. 

He thought about what it would be like to introduce Wooyoung to his parents, hybrid or otherwise. Wooyoung was cute and charming as hell, San’s mom would have loved him for sure. San’s dad loved cars, so Wooyoung would have surely won him over with his impressive stunt driving skills and rigorous knowledge of ten-cylinder fuel injected engines. At the dinner table, San would groan as his dad told embarrassing stories, like how San ripped his pants at his very first lacrosse tryout, and Wooyoung would laugh, nearly choking on the lasagna that San’s mom made from scratch. 

It hurt like hell, but San’s fantasies were all he had. 

It made San wonder if his parents could see him from wherever they were, not that San believed in a heaven. He’d had too many prayers go unanswered for that. He wanted to believe they were in heaven, but then again, he didn’t want to believe there would be a hell waiting for him on the other side. If there was a hell, San was already in it. 

San thought about his life backwards and forwards, ripping apart every moment to figure out exactly what he’d done to deserve this. 

Most often, San thought about Yunho. 

_Killing_ Yunho. 

San’s fingers twitched and his blood thrummed in his veins at the thought of it. He wanted to watch the light leave those big doe eyes of his, powerless as the hands of his former best friend. He wanted to savor every scream that left those pretty, traitorous lips, every whimper, every desperate plea for forgiveness. San wouldn’t just kill him. He would make Yunho _beg_ for death, like some poor, pathetic little mutt, and only then would San deliver, but not before he’d had his fun. 

And San would be merciless. 

He wanted to skin Yunho alive. He wanted to carve his name into Yunho’s bones, watching how he’d twist and scream with every cut, a sound so lovely San might even moan in pleasure. He’d practically be drooling as he felt his blade sink into Yunho’s flesh, dragging it slowly, _slowly_ through, rending it from the bone like a holiday ham. 

He’d start from his fingers, twisting and ripping off each nail, and San was the expert in getting the technique just right. He knew how to draw out the agony, how to make it hurt. One by one, rip, rip, rip. Tears would be streaming down Yunho’s face, but this was only an appetizer. Something to whet San’s appetite, getting him warmed up for the main dish. 

Next, he’d flense away the skin like a fisherman, filleting it from the muscle, then from the bone, his blade so sharp it’d cut through like butter. He’d have to work fast—San didn’t want Yunho bleeding out before he got to have his fun. The floor beneath them would be soaked in red, spilling down lusciously with each cut, a beautiful piece of art that San would keep etched in his mind forever. Maybe he’d even take a picture to hang on his fridge, greeting him fondly as he went to make his morning coffee. 

San fantasized about ripping every inch of flesh from Yunho’s bones until he was left nothing but a pile of meat, a sausage without its casing. Was that too nice? He would have to take it further than that—merely flaying off his skin wouldn’t be enough. Maybe he’d start by snipping all of his tendons—on his heels, his knees, elbows—that way he couldn’t run no matter how badly he wanted to. A quick snip, snip, snip, then San wouldn’t even have to keep him tied up. Perfect. 

Then, a brilliant idea hit—

A soldering iron, perfect! He could cauterize the wounds as he slowly peeled Yunho’s skin off, no longer having to worry about the blood loss. All he’d have to worry about was the shock, but that was fairly unavoidable. Maybe he’d start with something less fatal, like pulling out his teeth, cutting off his eyelids, and crushing his toes with a hammer. He could cut Yunho’s fingers off and force them down his throat, watching his ex-best-friend choke on bits and pieces of himself as San laughed merrily in amusement. 

Mm, how pretty those screams would be if San were to take that soldering iron and press it into Yunho’s eye socket, or slide it into his mouth and fuck his throat with it like the traitorous little whore he truly was. No, no—he couldn’t damage Yunho’s throat, not if he wanted to hear those beautiful, beautiful screams. And he couldn’t damage his eyes, either—not if he wanted to watch the light fade from them in his final, terrified moments. 

Hmm, what a dilemma. 

Cracking a femur was supposedly one of the most painful things a person could endure—how about cracking _two_ femurs? San imagined carving through the flesh of Yunho’s meaty thighs, slicing down until he felt his knife hit the bone, then working a pair of bolt cutters in with a wet, pretty squelch, securing the cutters around the bone, then… _snap_. Not once, but twice. _Snap, snap_. 

Should he start with the femurs, that way the adrenaline hasn’t had time to kick in and take the edge off the pain? Ah, so many variables. 

How lovely would it be to watch Yunho suck the marrow out of his own bones, slurping away like he was starved for it? How’s that for a final meal? And if he dared to vomit it back up, San would make him choke on his own severed cock instead. Well, maybe he’d do that anyway. It was awfully tempting. Castration wasn’t off the table, either—how San would love to watch Yunho’s pride drop to the floor with a sickening _plop_. It made him giddy just thinking about it. Hell, it might even make his cock hard.

Ah, so many options. 

He’d think of the perfect way, eventually. 

San had _plenty_ of time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> fun fact yunho's dog shit story is based off of true events
> 
> oh yeah lol notice how the ch count went up to 31? basically i'm shit at gauging how long this fucking beast of a fic is actually going to be haha oops. i'm pretty confident in that number now but who knows really
> 
> twitter & tumblr @ yungwooyoung
> 
> fic playlist that goes hard as fuck [here!!](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/5eGeySTdOkbL7GnwxifYW7?si=Srtv7kQNSbyvS_ZwvoA6hg)


	26. rattle your chains

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> HEY so basically i wrote an entire chapter, deleted it, then wrote a new one. so that was a waste of time. but anyway. 
> 
> HUGE TW for this chapter for graphic suicide attempt (this shit is heavy fr), psychosis, and sleep deprivation. some blood as always, a little gross toward the end-ish but it's pretty brief and nothing compared to the previous chapters. so yea leggo

How long had it been? 

What day, what month, what year was it? How old was he? 

San didn’t know. 

The seconds melted into hours, into days, into weeks, into hours, into seconds. Time seemed to flow forward and backward instead of linearly, his sense of reality nothing but a distant memory of the past. A concept he no longer could grasp. 

When was the last time he slept? 

He barely felt the shocks anymore, but they were enough to keep him awake. Sometimes it felt like mere seconds in between each one, and sometimes it felt like hours. It used to be one every sixty seconds, but he couldn’t be sure anymore. It didn’t matter. 

San wanted to die. 

That was the only thing he had any certainty of. 

The hallucinations started somewhere around the three day mark, and that felt like eons ago. At first, it was just little things, like shadows dancing in his peripheral vision, or bugs crawling on his skin. He would writhe and thrash to shake them off, but they clung to him without mercy, creeping under his sleeves and down the inside of his jumpsuit. Then the voices started, whispering unintelligibly from every corner of the room, sometimes laughing directly into his head. It was just gibberish at first, but then they grew louder, louder, _louder,_ until they were practically shouting. 

Sometimes he could decipher what they were saying. Bits and pieces of disjointed thoughts, everything from _“bright, too bright”_ to _“two cups of flour”_ in an endless stream of consciousness. Most of it was meaningless, just words smashed together with no real context, like flipping open a book to read random lines from the middle of the page.

The crawling sensation on his skin grew worse and worse until he could actually _see_ spiders on his skin, thousands of them, crawling over his arms, his legs, the bridge of his nose. He could feel them in his hair and under his clothes, tickling his feet, slipping between his fingers. Too many to shake off, no matter how hard he tried. He scratched at his skin endlessly, but they wouldn’t relent. He gave up eventually, letting them roam his skin to their heart’s content like he was nothing but a rotting log on the forest floor.

 _Zap._

The collar sent a shock down his spine. He tried to count the seconds, but he only made it to about five or six before he lost track. He wasn’t even sure if he could count to ten anymore, let alone sixty. San closed his eyes, but the brightness of his cell was enough to pierce through his lids, the pseudo-darkness offering no respite for even a moment. He could hear the shadows whispering again, like they were trying to grab his attention. Honestly, sometimes he liked the company. 

“Agent Choi!”

Who?

_Shut up._

“Psst, Choi!”

San kept his eyes shut. They were too heavy to keep open, and there was nothing to look at anyway. He’d memorized every line and imperfection on his blank, textureless cell walls, every smear of blood from his mangled fingertips, every subtle strobe from overhead. There was nothing to see.

 _What do you want? Leave me alone._

“San!” the shadow’s voice called from across his cell. 

San had himself tucked into the corner, trying in vain to shield himself from the heinous white light, but it was like trying to stop a monsoon with a cheesecloth. His head was heavy on his shoulders as he lifted it to follow the sound, every vertebrae in his neck creaking in protest. His joints were rusted over so bad he could barely move, and his blood felt like thick sludge in his veins, like a car long overdue for some new oil. 

“San,” the voice called again. 

“Mm?” San grunted, shifting his gaze toward the opposite wall. His eyelids were heavy from exhaustion, his eyes dry and throbbing. 

“Yo, Agent Choi! Over here!” 

Agent… Choi? 

Who?

Was he talking to San? 

San shifted his heavy body, putting his back to the padded wall. He hugged his knees to his chest, bright red jumpsuit stark against the endless white like a fresh kill in the snow. He looked up through the too-long hair that curtained his eyes, following the sound of the voice. 

“H-hello… ?” San croaked out, voice weak from misuse. He’d spent far too long screaming into the ether, and it had gotten him nowhere. 

There was a shadow sitting cross-legged in front of the door. Not just a shadow—a person. It had a solidity to its form that none of the other shadows had, almost like a tangible being.

“Remember me?” the shadow said, tilting his head with a smile. The darkness melted away, dripping like black paint being rinsed from his skin, revealing an all too familiar face. 

He had smooth, light brown hair, delicate, almost feminine features, and—most notably—a fresh, oozing bullet wound on the side of his skull. It dripped down over his ear, his neck, the collar of his shirt, staining his clean button-up in brilliant shades of red. Red against white—just like San. Two fresh kills in the snow. 

This… couldn’t be right, could it?

“Byun?” San rasped. 

He should have been dead. He should have been dead, and yet, there he was, sitting in San’s cell. Was he a ghost coming to haunt him? 

“Been a while, huh, Choi? Well, maybe not _that_ long. How’ve you been?” Byun asked nonchalantly, unbothered by his gushing, fatal wound. He merely greeted San like a casual acquaintance.

Agent Byun was dead, right? Hadn’t San gone to his funeral? He was pretty sure he remembered Byun’s face in a photo frame surrounded by a sea of flowers, which surely meant the funeral was being held for him. 

Right?

Actually… wasn’t San the one who’d killed him? 

He could barely remember anymore. He wasn't sure which of his memories were real and which were dreams, or if he was even awake at all. He thought he was awake, but other times it felt like he was trapped in a nightmare he couldn’t wake up from. Was _San_ dead? Is that why he could see Agent Byun? Was he hallucinating? Was this purgatory, or maybe a coma?

He didn’t know. 

He didn’t know anything. 

“You don’t look so good,” Byun commented, hissing in empathy as he raked his gaze over San’s beaten, broken down form, as if he wasn’t the one with a gaping bullet wound in his temple. 

“Neither do you,” San retorted dryly. His voice felt like it hadn’t been used in years. 

“Yeah, well, I have you to thank for that.” Byun gave a shrug, neither happy nor upset. 

San blinked, his lids like iron with how much they weighed. San _was_ responsible for Byun’s death, after all? He could vaguely recall pulling the trigger, but his memories were so jumbled up and confused he couldn’t tell up from down. He remembered pulling the trigger, then seeing Byun’s body crumpled on the floor. Those two images seemed to fit into the same memory. 

Why had San killed him? He and Byun hadn’t been enemies, nor had they been particularly close. Or… had they? Fuck, it was like trying to do mental math with people shouting out random numbers in his ear. His head was full of fragmented images that floated around in non-linear, scattered pieces like shrapnel after an explosion, any remnant of cohesion and order completely lost in the blast. The constant hum of whispering voices from all sides didn’t help, either. 

“I killed you,” San croaked, not quite a question. 

“Yeah, no shit. Look where that got you. You shot me in the head to cover up your secret, then you go and get caught anyway? Man, kind of makes my death feel pretty useless,” Byun huffed. 

“... Secret?”

“Oh, don’t tell me you forgot.” Byun rolled his eyes. “You know, you told the Director you killed me because I was in your way. Is that really true, San? You seemed awfully happy to pull that trigger. Is that how you get your rocks off nowadays? Pretty fucked if you ask me.”

Byun stood up, hopping to his feet with a grin that San couldn’t put meaning to. He cleared the cramped space in just a few short steps, crouching in front of San and leaning his cheek into his palm. A trail of blood dripped behind him, decorating the floor in little red paint splatters before evaporating into mist, lifting from the floor like an old video tape put in rewind. 

“Did it feel good? When you shot me?” He continued to speak to San like a buddy he’d gone out to get drinks with. “C’mon, you can tell me. You get off doing shit like that? I bet you do.”

“I…” San choked out. “I don’t—”

He tried to remember what happened that day. How his finger felt on the trigger, how he felt looking down at his colleague on the ground, pieces of his skull littering the floor and hair matted with blood. He remembered Wooyoung’s impressed smile after he’d said _‘you really have joined the dark side now, huh?’_

Did San _like_ killing? He certainly went all tingly at the idea of ripping Yunho limb from limb, if that was any indication. Hell, it practically made him _salivate._ Before San could form an answer, Byun moved on. 

“I don’t envy you, Choi. Looks like I got off pretty easy. You? You’re gonna rot here. You’re gonna lose your fuckin’ mind until there’s nothing left. You’re talking to a dead guy. You’re in bad shape, man,” Byun shrugged. 

“Are you… real?” 

Byun shrugged again. “Dunno. Are you? Does it even matter? Real or not, the pain—” Byun flicked him on the forehead with a dull _thump_. “It’s in here. It’s not going anywhere.”

“Why are you here?” 

“Why?” Agent Byun laughed. “You’re the one that killed me. Blame yourself.”

 _Blame yourself._

San did. He did blame himself. For everything. 

“And you know what? I could sit here and torment you for the rest of your miserable life. You’re stuck in this tiny-ass cell with me forever, and there’s nothing you can do about it. You can rattle your chains all you want, but I’m not going anywhere. Hey, at least you have a cellmate. Life in solitary looks… rather dull, doesn’t it?” Byun scooted against the wall, leaning his back against it with a weary sigh. “I wonder how long you’ll last like this. Not long, I’m sure. That’ll be fun to watch.”

Forever. Forever was a long time. 

“Leave him alone, piggy,” a new voice called from across the cell. San and Byun both looked up to see a figure leaned up against the door, arms crossed over his chest, sporting a familiar shade of shiny silver hair. 

San’s heart nearly stopped beating. Suddenly, his heavy eyelids were lighter than paper. 

“W-wooyoung?” San stammered, lifting his weighted skull toward the sound of his voice. 

“Yep,” Wooyoung smiled softly. “Hi, Sannie.”

San gaped in shock, trying to make sense of it all. “Are you… an angel?” he breathed. 

God, Wooyoung was beautiful—radiant, even—especially when framed by the dull white walls of San’s cramped cell. For once, his skin had more color than San’s, his fair cheeks painted with a soft, rosy hue that spoke of life and vitality, unlike the gray pallor that San’s skin had. His lips were pink and full, and his eyes gleamed with their trademark coyness, though absent of their usual cynical edge. His expression was also softer, more mild than usual. He _had_ to be an angel.

But something was… wrong. 

Across his throat was a nasty, fatal wound, gushing blood down the front of his shirt and spilling onto the floor. It didn’t evaporate when it touched the ground like Byun’s had, instead pooling around his feet like rainwater as he stepped across the cell. He knelt down in front of San with a concerned frown. Concerned for San, not himself, despite the liter of blood that had already collected around his shoes. 

Wooyoung giggled, high and musical, and San’s heart thumped audibly in his ears. “I thought you told me you didn’t believe in those.”

He didn’t. But… with the way Wooyoung was practically glowing, he wouldn’t be surprised if he suddenly unfurled a beautiful, shimmering pair of feathered wings. 

“Wooyoung,” San breathed in awe, which quickly turned to horror as a realization struck. “You’re not dead, too… are you?”

Wooyoung ignored him. “Is he giving you trouble?” He jabbed a thumb at the dead agent by San’s side.

“Hey, he murdered me. I can give him shit all I want,” Byun huffed. 

“Fuck off.” Wooyoung rolled his eyes. He strutted over to where Byun sat, then smacked him across the face. There was no impact—only a _whoosh_ of air as Wooyoung’s hand went right through his head like smoke, and Byun’s body faded away into curls of black mist that shrouded the cell for a moment or two before dissipating into nothing. 

Wooyoung turned to San with a smile, taking Byun’s old seat against the wall. San was completely mesmerized, awe-stuck to the point of silence, and Wooyoung merely sighed and pulled his knees to his chest. Blood spilled from his throat like a water faucet, but he didn’t seem to be in any pain. 

“You look like hell, Ops.” 

San blinked. “Wooyoung,” he croaked dumbly, breathtaken by the sudden appearance of his hybrid lover. San wasn’t sure if any of this was real, but he was ecstatic to see him nonetheless. “How… why…?”

Wooyoung leaned in and pressed his lips against San’s. The kiss lasted only a few moments, much to San’s dismay, but the fact that Wooyoung was there at all made San’s heart sing in a way that he hadn’t felt in lifetimes. Wooyoung’s lips were neither warm nor cold, just a phantom sensation as they brushed against San’s, a whisper of a touch. Even so, it was more than San could have dreamed of. Maybe he _was_ dreaming. 

When Wooyoung pulled back, his appearance had changed. Most noticeably was his hair, which had darkened into a dull, ashy black, and his skin had faded of color. His eyes, while they still shined with life, were ringed with deep circles, giving them a sunken, sickly feel. His lips weren’t as pink, though they smiled just the same. He looked younger and older all at once, the eyes of a child in the shell of a broken soldier. 

Wooyoung brought a hand up to San’s face, and that’s when he saw them—

The slices on his wrists. 

Blood oozed from the wounds, running down his forearms to his elbows, dripping freely onto the red-stained floor below. There was so much it was starting to pool around their legs, inches deep, soaking into San’s jumpsuit and the knees of Wooyoung’s pants. It was warm, like steaming bath water, and oddly comforting. 

San’s eyes fell to Wooyoung’s neck. Instead of a mortal wound, there was a collar around his throat. Shiny, gunmetal black, and blinking intermittently with rows of blue lights, just like San’s. An indication of someone without freedom. 

“Remember me?” Wooyoung asked gently, like he was a different person. He _was_ a different person—this wasn’t the Wooyoung that San knew, but one from another time. 

The boy from the recording. 

A human, not a hybrid. 

San nodded, lost for words. This was the Wooyoung he saw in his Wooyoung’s eyes, the remnants of who he used to be. The childlike mischief under all the anger, the playful humor under all the pain. The person who taught San to think freely, wherever that had gotten him. The person that sometimes revealed himself when San made him smile hard enough, or laugh loud enough. 

“You know what you have to do, Sannie,” he murmured, ghosting his fingertips over San’s wrist. “I came to help you.”

San looked down at his hands. They were cuffed in his lap, wrists bound uselessly together. His pale skin was marred with scabbed wounds and nasty, puckered scars, fresh and angry. Several of his fingers were angled in odd directions, never having set right after being broken. The beds of his fingernails were hardened with scabs as they tried to heal, but he was still as helpless as a cat without claws. 

“I can’t,” San whimpered, dropping his head in defeat. His chest felt tight, like his ribs were a few sizes too small. A jolt of electricity shot down his spine, as if to mock him. 

“You can. I know you can.”

San didn’t have a shard of glass hidden in his mouth like Wooyoung did. He didn’t have _anything_. Not even a wall to bash his head against, though he’d tried and tried. He’d tried starving himself, too, but they had ways of force-feeding him when he got too weak. He didn’t even have fingernails to sharpen, otherwise he would have gladly ripped out his own throat. 

Then it dawned on him— 

A cat without claws could still bite. 

The blood pooling around them was up to his hips now, a shade of crimson so deep it almost looked black. San couldn’t even see his feet anymore. Wooyoung’s wrists continued to leak, slowly filling the room with more blood than seemed possible. It just kept coming and coming, yet Wooyoung didn’t seem bothered. 

“You see? You know what to do,” Wooyoung said with a proud, fangless smile. Like always, he was beautiful—with or without them. 

“Wooyoung,” San breathed, voice cracking. 

“I’m right here,” Wooyoung assured, caressing a hand over San’s cheek with a phantom touch. 

Tears welled in San’s eyes as he brought his wrist up to his lips. His hands shook, weak with exhaustion, broken and mangled like the rest of him. Tendons strained underneath the skin in the backs of his hands, frail and skeletal, and his wrists were so thin they looked like they could snap. Even the restraints binding them felt heavy, dense like weights he could barely lift. 

San wasn’t afraid to die. 

Just the opposite—he was afraid to keep living like this, afraid that one day he might break and spill everything he knew, which could lead to Wooyoung’s arrest. San wasn’t afraid of hell, or of judgement. As far as he was concerned, he was already there. He’d already been judged, and sentenced to eternal damnation on earth. The only thing that scared him was continuing to live. 

Then… why was he crying? 

Tears streamed down his face, dripping soundlessly into the bath of crimson that rose steadily around his legs. Wooyoung crawled around to sit next to him, blood sloshing gently around his thighs as he leaned back against the wall. Wooyoung held his wrists in front of his face, examining the deep, gushing lacerations that split down the center of each one. 

“I-I can’t stop c-crying,” San croaked, shoulders shaking with sobs that seemed to lodge in his throat. He looked over at Wooyoung, eyes blurry with tears. 

Wooyoung gave a fond smile. “You know, I thought I would be scared. I was, at first. It hurt like hell, and then… it didn’t. I fell asleep, and that was it. At least, that would have been it, if they hadn’t saved me.” He let his hands fall back into his lap, fingers dipping into the slowly rising bath.

San wanted to kiss him, so he did. 

He pressed his trembling lips to Wooyoung’s, like the final goodbye he never got to have. Whether this Wooyoung was a ghost or an angel who’d come to take him away, it didn’t matter. In that moment, it was all San could have wanted. Wooyoung didn’t have wings, but he was still an angel in San’s eyes, the product of an answered prayer. 

“Thank you,” San breathed, pressing their foreheads together before pulling back. 

San turned, holding his wrists in front of his face. He could feel his own breath against his skin as he brought one to his lips. Swallowing, he squeezed his tear-soaked eyes shut and opened his mouth. 

San sank his teeth into his wrist with a scream of agony, biting down with all his might. The harsh taste of blood filled his mouth as his own flesh gave way, ripping under the force of his incisors. The pain was excruciating, but he didn’t relent. He cried out as he clenched his jaw tighter, forcing his teeth deeper into his arm, severing through vessels and skin until he felt his teeth hit bone. 

Only then did he retract, trembling, panting, blood dripping from his lips and running down his chin like juice from an apple. San let his hands fall back into his lap, the warm pool rising up his waist now, climbing higher up his chest as blood poured from his wrist. It burned, fire welling around the marks left by his teeth, but Wooyoung took his hand and threaded their fingers together, soothing the pain with a touch San couldn’t feel. 

“Go to sleep,” Wooyoung murmured, and San let his head fall onto his shoulder as the lights in his cell started to fade. 

San closed his eyes, eagerly succumbing to the darkness that swallowed him whole. He could hear a shrill, angry beeping in the distance from his collar, which grew quieter and quieter as he drifted off. 

Finally, _finally,_ San could sleep again.

“One week?”

“Mm. One week from today,” San assured, unable to help the fond smile that spread across his face. He leaned against the door frame of Wooyoung’s hotel room, his chest cavity buzzing with a strange combination of giddiness and sorrow, like he missed Wooyoung already. He hadn’t even left yet, but he wanted to walk right back into that room and kiss Wooyoung until his lips hurt. 

One week, then it was all over. 

Only one week, and San would be a free man. Never before had one week felt like such an eternity. That was their agreement, though—San would spend that time away to mull over his decision, since it was ultimately a permanent one. Once he decided to forsake the Ops, it couldn’t be undone. He would be dead to them, and they him. 

San thought about leaving a suicide note, but there was no point. They’d catch on eventually. With his bank account empty, and no body ever found, it wouldn’t take long for them to suspect he was still alive. It didn’t matter, anyway—he and Wooyoung would skip town, flooring it down the highway with a clean slate and new start. And… he'd be with Wooyoung. That was the part that really made his heart go nuts.

It almost didn’t seem real. 

San was dying to tell Wooyoung how he felt, but it would have to wait. Leaving the Ops was the biggest decision of his life, and giving the dust time to settle first seemed like the smart thing to do. Not that he even knew how to say it. All San knew was how good it felt to have Wooyoung’s arms around him, and how good it felt to hear him laugh, and how badly he wanted to have Wooyoung all to himself. 

Wooyoung bit back a grin, searching San’s face with a warmth in his gaze that melted San’s heart. “Think on it, ok?”

“Ok. I will.” Not that there was anything to think on. If it was between staying in the Ops as a miserable pawn, or running away with the man he loved, the choice was clear. 

Wooyoung shifted, almost a bit awkward, which was incredibly rare for him. “And… I’ll be here.”

San’s heart did a flip. “Ok,” he grinned. “I, uh… yeah. Ok.” 

San felt a little awkward, too. He wasn’t used to feeling so… vulnerable. Exposed, like Wooyoung could see his battered, fucked up heart right through his ribs. It was kind of scary, but another part of him didn’t mind it so much. If anything, he was glad Wooyoung could see right through him, given that no one else really could. 

There were a few beats of silence, and San took a hesitant step backwards into the hall. Before he knew it, Wooyoung was tugging him back in by the front of his shirt, pulling him in for a tender kiss. San wrapped his hands around Wooyoung’s waist, pulling him as close as physically possible as he reciprocated the kiss with way too much enthusiasm. 

San felt Wooyoung’s hand slide up his chest, resting over his sternum, the heat of his palm sinking in through San’s shirt into his skin. San let his tongue slide into Wooyoung’s mouth, and Wooyoung gave a soft sigh as they fell into a lazy, comfortable rhythm. San would have been content just kissing him like that for hours, holding him tight, getting high off his scent with every inhale. 

Wooyoung pulled back after a long moment, their lips parting with a soft sound. 

“Your heart’s beating fast. You must really like me,” he teased, though his smile betrayed a little shyness, and San’s heartbeat quickened even further as if to prove his point. 

San bit his lip, averting his gaze to the floor with a bashful laugh. “You wish.” 

San had to peel his hands away from Wooyoung’s waist. They wanted nothing more than to stay glued to Wooyoung’s skin, and the coldness of the air immediately made them long to pull him back in for another embrace. He didn’t, though. He stepped back into the hallway, stomach fluttering as Wooyoung slowly pushed the door closed, and, if San squinted really hard, it almost looked like his cheeks were flushed. 

One more week, and San would never have to say goodbye again. One more week, and Wooyoung was his. 

But goddamn, a week was a long time. 

“Bye, Sannie,” Wooyoung said, and it was the first time he’d called him that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> feel free to come yell at me on twt to stop being a lazy piece of shit 
> 
> also yeah i changed the summary again do u wanna fight. no. that’s what i THOUGHT. fr tho i will probably never be happy with the summary but that’s life 
> 
> twitter & tumblr @ yungwooyoung
> 
> hard as fuck [playlist](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/5eGeySTdOkbL7GnwxifYW7?si=Srtv7kQNSbyvS_ZwvoA6hg)


End file.
